


Under the Shadow of Elvhenan

by DoreNaErgoSum



Series: Under the Shadow of Elvhenan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Deviates From Canon, Elvhen Language, Elvhen Pantheon - Freeform, F/M, Fade Shenanigans, Inquisition Timeline, Magic Theory, POV Solas, Shadow!verse, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Time Skips, Unreliable Narrator, ancient Elvhenan timeline, occasionally alternating POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-04-07 22:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 68,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19094071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreNaErgoSum/pseuds/DoreNaErgoSum
Summary: Hands coiled around his body. Hands? Claws? It mattered not, because they dragged him deeper into the hard edges of his newfound coffin. Tens, hundreds, thousands… millions were grasping at him unceremoniously. Their chant was a faint whisper, though became louder with each tug.Trickster.Traitor.Deceiver.Their voices were a melange of despair and fury, ripping through him physically. His lids tiredly lifted and he watched the cloudy sky above Haven, losing himself in the verdant vortex of the Breach.They were bringing him to justice. They would bring him to eternal justice if he failed. Ultimately, they were bringing him home, for this was the only purpose that had always been expected from him.





	1. Mage Takes Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas gets to spend some time with the Herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are currently being reworked and will soon be updated with new scenes and details.

“You have an interesting way of looking at the world, Solas.”

“I try… and that isn’t quite an answer.”

“I look forward to helping you make new friends.”

“That should be… well.”

“That isn’t quite an answer, either.”

Solas narrowed his eyes at the fleeing silhouette of the young Dalish, bemused at her boldness in flirting. After all, they barely knew each other, and he had witnessed this behaviour from her before in the company of the Commander. Their exchanges amused him, as the man’s responses were always strangled by his Templar roots, fumbling over his words, his embarrassment dusting the tips of his ears in the pale shade of inexperience. All he could do was chuckle softly and continue his activity of collecting herbs.

And yet – here he was now, fumbling over his words himself, falling right in her playful trap.

He also could not think of any reason that he could have given her for such behaviour towards him. He had kept his distance from all of them, only interacting when prompted by them or when he knew his expertise would be required. And, now that the fatefully marked was awake and well, he was less needed than previously.

 _Un-fatefully marked_ , he noted grimly. _Another plight to be suffered by the consequences of my own stupidity_. The clans’ attitude to his extended hands were a balm to his troubled mind in times like these, soothing his inner monologue by reminding him that they were not his people anymore. But the remorse still lingered.

He supposed her flirtatious nature was to be expected, though. The clans were restrictive in their rules, straying so far from the old ways that they barely resembled any Arlathanian conduct. The Dalish hahrens’ cheeks would be permanently stained by a deep blush if only they knew exactly how their ancestors were enjoying their immortal lives.

Solas returned to contemplating the grounds of Haven, studying the constant stream of hurried workers. The tavern’s eastern door was wide open, and the faint sound of the bard’s lute barely reached him. Desperation, blind devotion, a short reprise from their daily struggle veiled in the gentle notes of an empty song… he knew these signs well, even in this deaf world. He had lived through countless of such displays, and none were easier to witness than the rest.

He descended a few steps, the bard’s faint lament to their Maker garnering lowered heads from the passers-by, before the door was finally shut. Now the indistinguishable words of the busy clamour were the only noise to accompany his inner monologue and observations.

“Excuse me, are you Solas? Lady Cassandra has sent for you to accompany her party to the Hinterlands.”

The scout’s Inquisition-issued armour glistened in the snow’s reflection, capturing his gaze for a moment.

“Very well”, Solas nodded in agreement. “And so, I shall.”

***

He had seen her in the field before. Her posture was correct but lacked the proper grace and fluidity of movements. Her twists of the staff around her body were at times crude and unrefined, likely attributed to the anxiety of having to use her abilities in the face of imminent danger rather than on the training grounds. The real surprise came when he noticed the fingers of her free hand weaving patterns, subtly and defiantly channelling energy from the Fade whenever she invoked electric pillars. Her astonishing and raw focus was filling in the staff’s energy, sorting, and her mid-air patterns hastening the process by filling in the gaps, thus efficiently deploying the columns on their targets. _With proper training_ _she could become unstoppable_ , he thought.

The fleeting thought missed him his cue to cast a barrier around himself and Varric and he noticed only when an apostate’s swirling ribbons of fire were imminent. He wasn’t too fussed about it – it was a small price to pay rather than clumsily casting a broken barrier now and losing some of his mana unnecessarily. He instead continued to send ice shards channelled from the staff towards the enemy Varric was fighting, bracing himself for impact.

Only – it never came.

The barrier cast around him was clumsy and costly, likely from an inexperienced caster that had just started studying the Spirit conjurations. It covered both him and Varric.

His eyes quickly darted towards the only possible explanation from their party, and saw her giving him a satisfied grin, to which he responded with an almost proud half-smile.

“Chuckles, seems like you got yourself a new student to listen to your casting theory”, Varric threw his words over his shoulder as he aimed Bianca for a devastating, critical blow to a Templar.

Solas could not suppress the amused – and amazed – tones of his voice. “Seems so, Master Tethras.”

***

There was not much to do for an apostate hedge mage in Haven unless someone came up with a new theory of what the Breach was or how to close it, hence he was largely left alone to his studies. Cassandra was kind enough to supply him with a small collection of Chantry history books, as he needed to refresh his memory and keep up the appearances of an apostate mage belonging to these times. The look of surprise and the glimmer of happiness on her face when he requested them was certainly more heart-warming than what he read what was preached to these damned fools. He read about the Maker before he joined her forces, but now he had access to the rarer accounts of their doctrine – and he was displeased to say the least. However, he knew the importance of faith in times of war, and he knew to respect their beliefs even if he knew where the winding paths the charade of godhood would take these poor souls.

He gazed outside his window. The breach was glistening in a bright green against the cloudy sky. The sight of the mingled colours would have been beautiful if not for the impending doom they represented.

He pondered if he had enough time to explore the history of Haven. He felt no need for food today, not after how his stomach turned at the implications of how the mages were treated under Chantry law. He leaned back into his chair, attempting to recall whether any incursions to the Hinterlands were planned for the rest of the day. Not that it would matter at this time, it was nearly midday, and beginning to travel towards the first intermediary camp would likely take until nightfall.

Yes, a quick walk through the Fade would be most welcome.

His path towards the bed was derailed by a shy knock on the door. He sighted. _Maybe they do want to waste time to get to the first camp today_. He carefully straightened his tunic and rolled his shoulder blades, preparing to greet the familiar scout.

Instead, he was greeted by the curious gaze of the Herald that has grown to be similarly familiar to him. Dirthamen’s vallaslin never failed to gift him an urge to wince, though luckily, he strangled it as soon as it crept at the muscles in his face. The as-green-as-the-Breach gaze was enough to appease the anger that brewed inside at the sight of the cruel marks that framed her beautiful eyes.

He allowed himself a faint, almost indiscernible snorted laugh. _Ah, betrayed by my own mind. I did think that, didn’t I?_

“What can I do for you?” he greeted her in his usual neutral tone. Or – tried to, at least, for a glimmer of warmth betrayed his previous thoughts. He was not too worried, however; he was confident in his restrain and their level of familiarity: he got to learn a great deal about her while giving almost nothing of himself in return. She would not be able to discern these very subtle inflexions.

“I was wondering… Solas, you have studied the Spirit spellcasting extensively.”

She was fidgeting at the sleeves of her tunic, a drastic change from her usual playful demeanour.

“A correct observation, yes” he answered raising an eyebrow in amusement, trailing his last word in the curve of a corner of his lips.

“I… want to learn more about barriers”, she continued. “And about magical auras.” The determination in her words was only matched by that in her eyes. He wondered if this is how she asked her clan’s elders as well about various magical techniques, and how many times she expected to be met with “ _Patience, da’len_ ” in return. Spirit magic, he learned, was a specialisation that came much later than any other, purely due to the misconceptions of the Fade and a lack of knowledge of proper conduct.

He may have the years and experience to back him up, but he was not any of her hahren.

“Very well. When would you like to start our lessons?”

She lit up at his words, his assumptions of her being repeatedly turned down by her elders proving to be correct. Her happiness was almost … _Wipe that ‘intoxicating’ from your thoughts, you fool!_ he angrily chastised himself.

“Would this be an appropriate time? Unless you would like to have a meal first.” she inquired, her tone undulating from excitement to weariness.  

“I have had my share for this noon”, he lied, while reaching for the acolyte staff with which he initially reached Haven, pondering if he should take his coat with him. “Let us train near the logging stand. I do not wish to give the soldiers any more reasons to fear the mages aiding the Inquisition”, he added, leaving the coat behind.

“Oh, I’m sure that at least the Commander won’t mind the Dalish spellcasting dance”, she laughed deviously, following his footsteps towards the main stairs. The hint of relief washed upon his features. _Yes, focus your attention on him._

Though she was not wrong. Cullen did not seem to mind her playful greetings and would certainly not seem to mind her practice-posture if the Commander was given the chance to see it. Because, truth to be told, he did not mind it either. She was right to call it a dance; on the field, it was more mechanical and downright disjointed at times, but on the training grounds with just the two of them she was focused and graceful. The weaver motions were complementing it perfectly, and it was truly beautiful to see.

 _There I go again,_ he thought angrily. _It is merely her posture and nothing more_ , he corrected his inner voice, focusing on her – no, _Mirwen_ – again.

He straightened his back, pacing towards her, correcting the angle of her staff with the tail of his.

“Remember to always distribute the weight of your weapon accordingly not only to your own, but also to the type of energy you are channelling”, he said firmly; this was no time for any admiring thoughts. “Storm spells will seek to ground themselves, and so you must angle the upper half of your staff lower, while Inferno spells will seek to escape forcefully. That is when you can let the staff touch the ground as you release the focus.”

He enjoyed teaching. Knowledge was a gift of power, in any shape or form. It is the greatest weapon that anyone could possess, and it is the first step of liberation.

“Winter spells are best cast without much angle, as they draw on humidity”, he continued, “but of course, I have noticed you prefer the more offensive routes, so this would not be of much use to you.”

“No, everything is of use. If there’s a possibility in the future for me to use winter spellcasting, I welcome acquiring the knowledge at any time”, she retorted with a frown on her face.

“You continue to surprise me”, he smiled, continuing circling her to determine other mistakes in her posture. He had to hide most of his finer Elvhen training in the battlefield, but that did not mean he could not refine hers. Someone like Vivienne might have picked up on his peculiarly elegant movements, and he was sure he was already raising suspicions on the account on his efficient and complex spellcasting, but he was not willing to give up on those – after all, they deserved to see what rigorous training with unhindered access to the Fade looked like.

“Though, as I understand it, Spirit spellcasting is entirely different from most of the other types… ah, the shem mages call them schools of magic,” Mirwen said, relaxing her stance. “I wouldn’t have much need for a weapon for them.”

“Indeed,” Solas said, tucking his free hand at the small of his back. “They are fundamentally divergent. Elemental magic is the careful synthesis of energies of two separate natures. I assume you may call them…”

“…beneath and beyond the Veil, Fade and physical world.”

“Yes,” he said softly, lowering his gaze towards the blunt end of her staff, barely grazing the fresh layer of snow underneath. Once, such a separation would have been inconceivable, and such a distinction as unnatural as the concept of mortality.

Both of whose creation he had taken the mantle of the architect. 

“Two worlds that cannot coexist on the same plane,” he finished the sentence, shifting his eyes back to hers.

“Which is why staves are needed, to aid the energy merging process.” Mirwen leaned onto her staff and motioned to his with her chin. “Makes the mix stable and doesn’t burn through your hands and the entire forest if you try something more complex by sorting out the energy out of your competence.”

Solas hummed in agreement.

“You will find that I am better at theory, I’m afraid,” she said sheepishly.

“I would not go so far as to dismiss your practical aptitudes,” he assured her gently. “I have seen how you carry yourself in battle and your instinctive methods are rather remarkable.”

“Oh?” Mirwen interjected, raising her eyebrow. “I didn’t realise I was followed that closely.”

A devious smile graced her features as soon as the realisation dawned on both of them. Solas swallowed instinctively.

“Shall we go back to training?”

“That would be… best.”

“From my understanding, Spirit magic can be done without the help of a staff. It draws solely on the Fade and it has been described as deceptively easy,” Mirwen continued, pacing around the training grounds, seemingly in search for something.

“That is correct. Most common modern techniques use the bending of the Veil to wrap around the caster, or pulling on incomplete spirits to weave the barrier with. I assume the latter was more prevalent in the magic you’ve encountered.”

“Yes, though both require plenty of concentration and energy to sustain, which I’ve noticed that you don’t have issues with,” she answered, resolving to lean her staff on a tree. “I presume you do not use them at all? I have seen the redirection of ambient energy to your personal aura in your spellcasting, to complete and reinforce your barriers... Is it a technique you’ve learnt from the Fade?”

_Noticed, hm?_

“Observed in the Fade, yes,” Solas answered, maintaining his calm through the lie. “And adapted.”

“Impressive.”

“Only when I want to,” he added, with a teasing smirk of his own.

 _Fenedhis, stop encouraging this._

He turned on his heels, in an attempt to retake control of the situation. With the blunt end of his staff, he drew a line in the snow, to limit their training ground.

“Let us continue with our practice. Cast a barrier on both of us and tell me what you think can be improved.”

***

He had to admit, she was a fast learner and he very much enjoyed seeing her evolve. After only one lesson, she managed to fix the broken tessellation of her barriers, although she could not manage to do so without expending a large quantity of her mana. _Small steps_ , he added to himself. He tried to remain neutral in their session, but he could not lie to himself in the intimacy of his own mind. He was proud. He was amazed. He was intrigued.

“Your travels have taken you far and wide into Thedas, haven’t they?”

But, more importantly, she radiated the hazy aura of an enigma, that only left him curious for more.

“They have,” Solas answered, planting his staff in the snow below in tandem with his stride.

“And you’ve interacted with many cultures.”

“Indeed,” he said softly.

It was an all too familiar course of discussion, one in which he had been met reticence, accusations and downright hostility before. Any Dalish and city elf that had gotten close to him in the past had all coveted the same gilded stories of ancient times.

“You wish to know what I have learnt about the elves.”

Unknowing to the fact that his stories would always shake the very foundations of their beliefs.

“It is only natural to be curious about your opinions about our culture,” Mirwen answered in her usual melodious lilt.

“I thought you would be more interested in sharing your opinions of elven culture. You are Dalish, are you not?”

“I gather you have had some less than favourable encounters with the Dalish clans.”

“When one questions the very foundations of your people, it is unlikely that they would be met with… favourable… reactions.”

Mirwen hummed, stepping over the slippery rocks that had almost tripped them on the way to the training ground. “What is it that makes you question them?”

“I have walked the Fade and seen things your people have not. Integrals, from which you have taken fragments and passed on for generations.”

It was the moment in any discussion where the descendants of his people would become bitter, marring their dialogue in a fury which would only deepen as their questions persisted. _The last of the elves, the best chance at preserving ‘our people’_ , Solas recounted their usual argument. Mirwen was set to follow in the same footsteps, for he would not be deceitful about his stance.

“So you take slight with our attempts to recreate our culture from the little fragments we have gathered throughout the years?” she asked in calm tone instead before sighing deeply. “I see… and this has made you reluctant in sharing any information you have learnt about our people’s past or share suggestions on where to improve.”

“I have long learnt that your people do not take kindly to my suggestions. It is not my place anymore to do so,” Solas said in low voice.

“I see… I'll admit, to hear this attitude coming from another elf stings. But you are in luck, Solas, because I will not return the same lack of understanding that you have shown us.”

His steps halted for a moment and he was unable to hide his surprise.

“There is at least one Dalish interested in hearing your opinion,” Mirwen continued softly. “You cannot tell me you have given up.”

“It is…” he began, unable to choose the right words, her statement paradoxically simplifying and convoluting his answer. Perhaps his attitude had been improper. “It is more complicated than that. Not many others would be interested to listen. Most do not want to improve their lives and only wish to cling to erroneous fragments of history, only shadows of true events.”

Mirwen let out a plaintive laugh. “I was trained as a First in my clan, I was to follow in Keeper Deshanna’s footsteps when she would be ready to step down so, mind you, I had all the training possible: elven culture, language, Dalish history and pre-Dalish history – what little we even have of that. And…” she trailed off, wistful.

For a few heartbeats, he could only hear the snow crunching beneath their feet.

“I envy you,” she continued, barely more than a whisper. “I envy you for your possibility of witnessing history in the Fade, no matter how small it is. And I envy your presence of mind to sift through experiences of past people, to understand and decodify their meaning. I envy you for even being in a place to criticise our knowledge.”

Solas closed his eyes, guilt settling in his bones, unable to answer her unknowing accusations.

“I cannot speak for all, but not knowing much about our history makes me feel incomplete. You say that we cling to shadows, but would you not cling to anything that explains your existence on this earth? We cling to this because it is all we have. Wars have taken our lands. The Shemlen have taken our brothers and sisters’ faith and only granted them a Vhenadahl in the slums of their cities. We the Dalish now only have the few traditions and items that remained preserved, and stories passed by word of mouth. There is no other choice. Is their anger to your corrections that unjustified? Is it enough to stop wanting to help us? Ma ghilana, Solas.”

“I… forgive me. The fault is mine, I should not have been as dismissive as I have been. Please, ask and I shall answer your questions as best as I can.”

He hazarded a glance towards Mirwen. She was looking down at her steps and her wavy auburn hair concealed her expression, all but the hint of a smile curling into cheeks reddened by the cool winter winds.

He found himself staring.

“Tell me about the ancient elves.”

***

Pushing past the gates of Haven and on the way back to his appointed abode, she asked him about the Fade. There was no denying that he enjoyed this side of Mirwen, something that he did not find in most of the Dalish clans he encountered. No one wanted to be proved wrong, and most of his stories challenged even the smallest of their convictions. But not her – she listened carefully and drank every last of his words, no matter how different they were from her Keeper’s. She sometimes interjected, mentioning how it was interesting that their experiences differed, but she never shot down any of his explanations.

It was both hard and easy to dodge the full truth; he revealed to her the short story of his upbringing and defended the spirits he interacted with. Dreamers like him were not nearly as uncommon then as they were now, but he had to defend his questioned willpower before, too. She was, however, unexpectedly understanding. Truth to be told, she did not give him any reason to suspect otherwise, but it was still a surprise to hear someone agree with him so openly without expecting anything in return, other than to continue the conversation.

“I wish you luck”, she said upon hearing his reasons to joining the Inquisition and wishes for the world to keep standing in order for him to dream of the Fade.

“Thank you. In truth, I have enjoyed experiencing more of life to find more of the Fade” he divulged, readying himself again to be ridiculed for his views as he was the first time he confessed this to a Dalish.

He was only met with a curiosity.

He softened his temples, returning to his usual demeanour.

“You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit. You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I”, he responded, confident that they have reached common ground regarding the Fade and, with that, probably the end of their musings.

“Indomitable focus?” she unexpectedly added in a slightly lower cadence, raising her eyebrow.

“Presumably”, he responded in a similar voice, recalling their previous training. “I have yet to see it dominated.” He was ready to finish his reply, and yet he could not stop a smirk from appearing on his lips, not he could stop blurting his next thought. “I imagine that the sight would be… fascinating.”

The flustered and flattered giggle that left her worldless were enough to tell him that he made the best and worst choice of ending their dialogue. In his usual fashion, he had bested Cullen’s king with a measly, well-placed pawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 16 Jan. 2020 with some new dialogue bits


	2. Rebellion Parabola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas trains, plays Diamondback and reflects on the Evanuris.

The clink of the improvised staff blade on Mirwen’s weapon against his acolyte staff’s tail was loud enough to garner a worried look on her face.

“Focus, Mirwen”, he said hurriedly, verging on shouting. “Use the blade to your advantage if you cannot cast a spell in close combat.” He knew he had to push her, to let her test her abilities before such a scenario would happen in the field. He kept the makeshift, tightly secured dagger at the end of her staff at the periphery of his vision, ready to cast a close-knit and front-heavy barrier.

He rolled the length of the weapon towards the mid-point of her staff, forcing the pointed end away from him. “You need to be prepared to retaliate, Mirwen. There is just so much a mage’s weapon can endure before snapping in half”, he added firmly, pushing towards her, adding to the imminence of his heeds.

There was no denying that in this case, had he not purposefully wished to not throw her to the ground, the closeness would never have happened. He could see her lose her usual determination and anxiety was creeping in; if this was how she responded in training, he could not bear to think what would happen in a real fight. Their foreheads were almost touching. “Focus!” he snarled at her, forcing the endless emeralds to fixate on him.

And that was what it took. In one swift motion, she lowered herself and clunkily rolled the staff, freeing herself from the blockade. The quickness and surprise of her movement slightly destabilised Solas, and the dagger ripped through the sleeve of his tunic, grazing his arm in a clean and shallow cut. He did, in fact, lose his own focus.

But he did not mind, as this was the point of their training. This injury was easy to fix and would not hinder him in the following days. Mirwen, however, seemed to think otherwise. She dropped her staff and her hands darted towards his arm. Solas raised his weapon between them, propping it under her chin and gently but firmly raising her worry-clad face.

“Do not drop your guard no matter what happens in the battle”, the rigid tone of his voice making her sigh in annoyance.

He lowered his own staff and took a few steps back, watching her collect her discarded weapon. They had continued their training sessions in-between incursions to the Hinterlands, though she never showed this response when he took a hit. Granted, he was usually quick to cast a barrier, but today he was especially clumsy. He was not angry nor upset at his new physical wound, for his carefully-built emotional inner wall was irremediably bent.

“There has to be a better alternative to melee in close combat”, she said quietly. It was not a question, but a statement and he knew that she was blaming herself for the small crimson patch on his arm.

“You are correct”, he responded in his usual gentle manner, proceeding to walk back towards the village. “In its modern form, the school is called Knight-Enchanter, descended from the ancient Elvhen technique of the Arcane Warriors. As I have learned, the formal name was Dirth’ena Enasalin. I’m afraid I would not be able to help you here but, as I understand, our resident First Enchanter has studied these skills.”

The rest of their trip was devoid of their usual exchanges.

***

He was grateful for the couple of free days in Haven, which were enough to clean and dry his tunic and undershirt. He did not pay much attention to Vivienne’s comments about his choices of fashion, as his purpose was not to impress anyone with his appearance. Maybe, if he was again a young general he would have chosen flashier garments. But even so, after witnessing his fellow Evanuris’ growing infatuation with their own image, he had often opted for just a slightly modified standard Arlathanian armour, adorned with his distinctive symbol – a wolf pelt draped over his shoulder and secured at the front and back of his plate with a belt. _It would probably still be flashier than most modern armours_ , he noted absently.

That being said, there was no reason for his current garments to not look _somewhat_ put-together. He thus started to plan the new seam on the tunic’s arm, debating whether to add another to the other side for symmetry. He was so lost in his thoughts and his sewing that he did not even hear the first knock on the door.

“Yes, you may come in”, he absent-mindedly responded to the second, still entranced by the thread.

The absence of any voice following the opening door and footsteps was what distracted him from his activity. That, and the seemingly unexpected faint coldness on his bare chest.

Mirwen was standing at his house’s entrance, wordless and embarrassed to find him in this state and for a split-second he shared her emotion. He knew he had nothing to be ashamed for, as the millennia-long uthenera did not strip him of his toned appearance and, truth to be told, even if his muscles were less taut he wouldn’t have cared much. He simply did not wish to put her in this unexpected position.

“I apologise”, he said, returning his gaze to the tunic. “I seem to have lost contact with my current state while concentrating on sewing. How can I help?” He waited for her response. “Unless you would prefer to discuss once I am finished. I can come search for you in that case.” He added, still avoiding looking at her, in hopes of easing her embarrassment.

“No, it’s– “, she cleared her throat, “it’s fine. Solas, I haven’t apologised for the cut I gave you the other day.”

Her voice was worried and remorseful. Which would explain the complete lack of their usual communication since the incident.

“There is no need to apologise, lethallan”, he responded softly. “You merely did what the training required you to do. It was my mistake for not raising the barrier fast enough.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “A training, perhaps, best suited for another session”, he added, ending with a boyish smile.

This suggestion seemed to have both relieved and flustered her – or maybe it was his state of semi-undress combined with his fixating gaze? She had caught him unguarded before, so now he felt no need to be angry with himself. Afterall, he only straightened the records and he did enjoy witnessing that expression on her.

***

What he did not enjoy was her devotion to the Evanuris – or, the Creators, as she and the other modern elves called them.

She would pray to Mythal before leaving Haven; this was not quite as annoying as some of the other prayers she would voice, as hearing his old friend’s name was weirdly cathartic. She would pray to Ghilan’nain before going back to Haven which, he supposed, he would almost found endearing if his indignation wouldn’t have outweighed the sentiment. She would pray to Sylaise before tinkering with potion recipes, which he could live with since he rarely got to hear them and, if he saw her visiting Adan, he would just retreat into his appointed house. She would thank Dirthamen when finding the information she was seeking through Solas’s tomes – this was particularly grating, as she often spoke those words at his table whenever she invited herself over. The prayers to Andruil when hunting for requisitioned pelts were just as offensive, and he could never suppress the displeased sounds he would make upon hearing them; he kept his distance ever since the first time it happened. The prayer to Falon’Din upon finding slain Inquisition soldiers was, though, his worst-received: the shocked and wounded look he received from Cassandra when he unintentionally, loudly and ill-timedly scoffed was enough to tell him that he was far too overt in his indignation. His respect for the Seeker grew, though, when he saw how reverent she was with her Herald’s beliefs. He did not hear much about June, but maybe he would have if only he visited the blacksmith’s workshop more often.

There were, however, two names he would hear in conjuncture with each other. She would invoke Elgar’nan at the sight of enemies, but she would only shout Fen’Harel curses during the battle. The irony never ceased to make him chuckle to himself, when with each “ _Dread Wolf take you!_ ” he would channel the most powerful spell he allowed himself to showcase and deliver a lethal blow to whatever enemy she was focused on. He sometimes encased them in ice – he liked to vary.

But as much as he tried to find humour in the situation, those curses did nothing more than to hurt his very soul. He never wished to be invoked as a god like the rest of them, and he absolutely did not want to ever hear a prayer in his name on the lips of any of his People, but her intent stung nonetheless.

***

They never really stood a chance.

He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs while taking another gulp of ale from the tankard in front of him. Their table in the tavern garnered considerably more attention the longer they played. He had to lead his opponents on in the first few rounds to test their reactions, but he barely lost anything of important value. The last of his offerings was another round of drinks, which was at least two hours ago.

“What is it with you elves and Diamondback?!” Varric amusedly exclaimed. “I once taught this game to an elf friend of mine and he would not stop playing it. He had bi-weekly games with half of Kirkwall and he won more often than not just by bluffing through his teeth!”

He simply had good hands and knew when to change his demeanour. He picked up the game easily, but the real challenge was to learn everyone’s facial cues and subtle body language. He also couldn’t help that his default demeanour was much more reserved than the rest of them, and the simulacrum of stronger emotions threw his opponents right in his trap. _Ir harellan sa’vunin_. The thought brought him laughter in the sanctuary of his mind.

He made a point of looking at his cards by lowering his head angled to some degree. Without moving it, he slowly peered his gaze towards Blackwall, who sat at the direct opposite end of the table. He languidly brought the tankard to his lips, sipping, and returning to the same position as before, launching a smirk to the Grey Warden.

“You’re bluffing, you nug dung-eater! You wouldn’t bet that hand!” Blackwall exasperatedly exclaimed.

_I’d bet he now wishes he never taught me this game._

“Is that your final stance, Blackwall? Maybe it would have been easier for you to guess my moves had I been a Darkspawn”, he retaliated in a confident tone, shifting again in his chair, toothily smirking.

He knew this fidgeting was sending alarm bells to the Warden and his defiant smile was irritating the inebriated man enough to forget that he now only had a bucket on his bits.

“You’re damned right, Solas!” Blackwall declared, throwing his cards on the table.

“Thank you for the game, I shall take my leave for this night, together with my rewards” Solas responded with a gentle placement of his cards on the table, rising from his chair in an eruption of laughter from the on-lookers.

Blackwall looked both displeased and impressed.

“Andraste’s sacred knickers, you completely destroyed Hero and I think this is the broadest emotional range I’ve seen from you, Chuckles”, Varric told him as he was walking alongside him, helping in hauling the loot. “You should display it more in the party, together with those witty remarks of yours. It’d definitely make for a much more fun exchange when talking to Sera.”

“And risk losing my stoic reputation? Master Tethras, I thought you already knew my role in this story.”

***

At his core, he was nobody. A nobody who was lucky enough to be born with exceptional magical abilities. He had no claims to nobility and he had no access to early impeccable education like the rest of his peers in his time. He did not lie to them: he hailed from a Northern village where he spent most of his time exploring the Fade simply because that was what encompassed all the knowledge he would have had access to at the time. He honed his skills and developed new techniques, and in so doing at a young age he had surpassed most of his elders. His charisma and wit got him further than his home, leaving to continue his studies of the Fade in various major strongholds. His aptitudes grew together with his ego. He was confident, strong willed and got into way too much trouble for that sharp tongue that never hesitated to challenge superiors.

And he had liked it that way. It is hard to be hurt by anyone when all they can see is a cocky, hot-blooded bastard with the talent to back it up.

He was never seen more than that.

He fought for what was right once. Twice. Thrice. Countless times. The war seemed never-ending. He quickly advanced through the ranks simply because no one else was ready to make harsh decisions. And why would they? They had a title and lands to protect, and they would’ve rather made alliances behind the people’s back just to save their own hide.

_I was just a nobody_ , he reminded himself defiantly. Nobody was interested in him before he became a commander, and nobody was truly interested in him when he became a general. Only grazing the surface, just so they can advance in their own ranks.

“Making the hard choices”, he whispered the words for himself, trailing them into thin air.

There was a purge through his army; everyone who showed a blatant lack of interest in the cause was sent back to their homes, as he did not need anyone who was not ready to fight for their land. He would rather see them die in their cosy beds wrapped in ragged furs than die an honourable death on the battlefield. He would rather hear their terrified screams risen to the skies in unison as the imminent doom was upon them. His army was considerably smaller than the rest of the generals’, but it was better prepared, and a fire burned in each of his soldiers’ eyes.

Word spread quickly of his conquests and the desolation that swept the country sent more people to his cause. They were not formally trained and they were green in battle, but they were determined and ready to give their life to save what was left of their lands if only Solas was their leader.

Then, they were kings.

Technically, kings and queens. They each parted the lands and took a region for themselves. His country prospered under his rule and he often marched against threats with an army fiercer than ever. He devoted his time to studying Spirit spellcasting and healing and thus he rarely had major casualties from his soldiers. He had ruled alone, never seeking to expand his territory by making any  romantic alliances with the other monarchs.

_I was just a nobody_ , he repeated absently. The higher he climbed, the less anyone was interested to know him as a person. They only knew of King-Solas, then God-Solas. Always looking to gain something from him.

His charm made him an adept of the Elvhenan Game, his double-edged words slashed clean cuts through defiant nobles, and his caustic gaze closed any wounds that his fellow Evanuris thought might have etched into him. He revelled in his new title when he received it; it was a shield that made him untouchable. He could do whatever he wanted and whoever he wanted and, combined with his cunningness, it rarely ever got him in trouble. He winced at the memories.  

He was never truly liked by his peers. His people thrived unshackled, a testament that worship was unnecessary for his lands’ wellbeing. He wore no masks and made no claims, and he was as vocal as he could about his humble beginnings. Mythal was sympathetic to his cause and she at least tried to understand his views. Her land and temples were fields of vallaslin-covered visages that, against all his expectations, prospered and led happy lives. Just like the others, she was not afraid to use and iron fist to pluck the bad apples of her emerald orchard, but he supposed some measures were necessary. Those were hard choices to make.

Then came the rebellion and that was when _He_ fell apart.

His being was split apart; far were the years when he was Solas the Evanuris, and further were the years when he was just Solas. He now was either Fen’Harel the mocked for his liberation of the People and his views of freedom, or he was Fen’Harel the ruthless leader, the one who brought light back to the clouded Elvhenan eyes. He was both feared and revered – as a symbol.

Which was why he found it so curious and unnatural that she wanted to know more about him and his views, questions that were not in line with Leliana or Cassandra’s investigations. She pried but never pushed past his barriers, treating them with curiosity and respect. He noticed that she had started to catch on his subtle change of expressions and inflections in his speech. She made him smile frequently and he enjoyed all the little moments they shared laughing at some irrelevant joke. He never remembered the words, but he could recall her laughter crystal-clear in his mind.

A knock on the door derailed his thoughts; he climbed down the tavern bed, fingers still absent-mindedly laced on the wolf jawbone that hung low around his neck. He greeted Cassandra and knew it was time for Mirwen to meet the Grand Enchanter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir harellan sa’vunin. - I am a trickster for one more day.


	3. Tabula Rasa...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which the Redcliffe Castle mission throws the whole Inquisition upside-down.

 

There was no telling what she saw in the twisted future at Redcliffe, but whatever it was it seemed to have shaken her to her core. He had witnessed such changes in his soldiers’ eyes before, their true innocence being stripped away from them once they faced destruction.

On the way back from the village, they had stopped to seal a rift; Cassandra barely had enough time to assume her defender role when Mirwen jumped from the unspoken lines of the mages, launching fire spells in a successive order. The immolation scorched the land beneath her feet, while the glistening sharp iron blade at the end of her staff slashed through a hunger demon. The display was raw and primal, uncharacteristic of the carefree elf as he knew her. He lowered his staff seeing that she was casting her own barrier. He looked at Dorian, who similarly was slouching his shoulders in silent understanding. The future that came to pass hung low on the Tevinter mage, but it was clear he chose to deal with it in a different manner.

It seemed that she finally understood the gravity of their mission and the power of her purpose. He was later told by Dorian what happened in the missing seconds between Alexius’s spell and his defeat, and he was told about the Elder One’s plans, but it was clear that the man refused to tell them something deeper than that as if it was a story reserved for someone who had fighting alongside them for longer than he did.

Solas did not pry. Just as she respected his boundaries, he would respect hers. 

Cassandra shared his sentiment, but she was more physical in her understanding. She broke off from their trio, now walking alongside Mirwen in silence. The hand that she placed on her shoulder seemed soft and reassuring and the Seeker spoke words that he could not hear.

_You did well_ , he filled in the blanks, hoping it mirrored her encouragement.

The rest of their trek to the main encampment was shrouded in silence. She was no longer praying to the Evanuris, her angry shouts devoid of his name and strangled before they could leave her lips. The new light cast upon her was deepening the shadows of her role in his grand scheme and weighted his heart. _She was never supposed to bear the burden_ , he thought, a strained expression contorting his exterior.

They reached Haven and the party scattered; Cassandra, Dorian and Mirwen marched towards the Chantry to deliver the news to the other Inquisition leaders. For the first time in the past year he felt aimless. The revelation of the crooked magister’s plans had him shaken and he knew it was only a matter of time before his forces would come for the Anchor. The clock of a would-be god was not going to wait for a third tick. 

“More piss-pot mages ‘round here from now on, yeah?” Sera said as she joined him in observing the unsure pouring of the rebels through the main gates. “Think there will be enough elfies to rebuild the empire?”

Her taunting and laughter did nothing to break his calm demeanour. There were, in fact, enough elven mages to recruit as agents, but that was beside the point. 

***

He retreated to his desk to study more of the history after an afternoon of witnessing it being written. It was vital to know your allies and to understand their struggle. The mages held their head high free of the Circle’s shackles, but it was clear they were lost, and their appearance was only bravado. Newfound freedom is bittersweet at first and it had to be cultivated. They had to be shown what they were fighting for. 

He overheard fragments of Mirwen and Dorian’s discussion; she was just as curious about him as she had been about Solas. There was a strong bond that formed between them after Redcliffe, which came as no surprise as they shared the burden of knowledge of a twisted future. Her tone was changed, she was much more prone to hiding her hurt behind a curtain of sarcasm and Dorian played off her words impeccably. 

Jealousy.

He scoffed at himself. What was he jealous about? He hadn't been jealous when he heard her flirt with Cullen or when she playfully taunted the scouts before. 

He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t heard her say any such words in a long time towards anyone else. She had stopped at some point, one that he could not recall. 

He exhaled deeply. He barely managed to read more than a paragraph from the tome in front of him. It was rather uncharacteristic of him to be so easily distracted from a task that he had set for himself. He absent-mindedly stroked his scalp, as if to check if his braided crest from his youth suddenly adorned his head – he only found freshly shaven skin. 

He stood up, planning to walk towards the forest around Haven to cool his thoughts. The Inquisition was agitated, footsteps and mingled voices signalling their preparations of assault on the Breach of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The primordial rift would be just the beginning of the war and he genuinely hoped they would keep the fire ignited after their mission was complete.

Despite the commotion, he was able to blank out his mind, pushing all the sounds away, becoming only a blur to accompany the images unfolding in front of him. He was slipping into a meditative state, eyes searching a point faraway in the distance. 

“ _Solas_ ” a murmuring voice rippled through the fogged glass that he had raised around his mind. Echoing over spectres, he turned to look at Mirwen as the clamour of the village washed down onto him in waves.

“Herald”, he responded with her human title. It was imperative to remind her of her role, though he soon regretted it as he saw a faint wince at the corner of her eyes.

“May I accompany you?” she continued after a moment of silence. 

He nodded. She didn’t know where he was going, but Solas knew it did not matter. 

He silently guided them though the organised soldiers, who were returning with their newly forged weapons. The Commander saluted them with a professional bend of head before returning to give orders to his new recruits. They continued to walk with slow stride, seemingly unpurposeful, towards their secluded training ground.

They reached the calm waters and he found himself gazing towards the Breach. The faint murmur of the forest cloaked his mind - he would fall back into the meditative state.

“You gave your life for us” Mirwen broke the silence. 

He turned to her, confused, but he did not dare to disrespect her tone with an ill-conceived reply.

“I found you filled with red lyrium, thrown into a cell in the Redcliffe Castle.”, she continued, voice lower and lower. Solas looked at her trembling lips, but she did not return his gaze.

“Once we killed Alexius, we were cornered. The Elder One was coming after us. You and Cassandra chose to sacrifice yourselves…”, she paused, as if strangled by her own memories, “so we could escape.”

“There is little I wouldn’t sacrifice for a cause I believed in”, he replied flatly to fill the stretching silence, and he felt a knot tighten in his throat.

“You marched with Cassandra outside the throne room, facing the army of demons into a fight that would have only killed both of you. I saw a Pride demon throw your lifeless bodies on the ground as they marched towards Leliana, more skeleton than the woman I know.”

She raised her eyes, pinning his. His breath stilled. 

“Would… you mind if I hugged you?”

Her voice was shaky. There was nothing for him to say in this moment for even his voiced approval seemed profane. He simply extended his arm, which she took wearily. Solas pulled her to his chest tentatively, and he felt her burrowing in his coat. He tightened his embrace, both arms coiled around her tiny frame. He took seconds to debate an empty question, revelling in the softness of her hair feathering against his chin. He placed a soft kiss on the top of her head as a silent reassurance and gently caressed her shoulder.

_Just don’t make me have to sacrifice my love._  

***

He was a good strategist. Truly. Otherwise he would have never been raised to the title of Evanuris. It was odd to see himself fumble through the murky threads of the present and navigate with such an unsteady stride. All the knots he had been carefully tying since his awakening risked being undone by just one lingering gaze. 

He had been writing cryptic messages to his agents for the past days, informing them of the future at Redcliffe and communicating his next steps. His writing was unsteady, filled with anger for himself.

He let heavy lids darken his vision. His inner eye traced Mirwen’s cheekbones, caressing her lower lip. He forced himself to look higher, at the crimson lines of Dirthamen’s raven. The vallaslin pained him now even more than it did before, but it was the best reminder of what he was fighting for. It burned scars into his own cheeks and it would ring the screams of his People in his ears. Louder and louder, he let his mind be invaded by the chants of the Elvhen and the bloodied prayers they raised to their tyrannical despots.

There was nothing more he wanted than stripping her of those cruel marks and break her unknowing chains. But – in doing so, he would break his promises as well. The crimson lines were a song of ages past, and he needed them, so he could cling onto his mission. He needed them especially on _her_ face, to restrain him and force him out of this corner. 

A loud horn swept the village.

It was time to assault the sky.

With newfound concentration, he removed his previous thoughts from his mind and quickly finished his letters. He would pass them unnoticed in the fervour that was taking place outside.

***

He trailed his lips on the inside of her thigh; smooth, soft … her skin inviting him to softly bite down just to hear her sweet moan. With her intoxicating scent filling his nostrils, he inhaled deeply as if to catch every last drop, to replace the entirety of his lungs with the memory of her. He dug his nails into her hips, his thumbs lunging upwards and with them, his eyes followed their pivoted point towards hers. He lasciviously placed his tongue on the bitten spot, dragging it towards her core, her fingers reaching for the back of his head, wantonly guiding him forward…

Solas snapped out of the vision. With his heartbeat quickened, he felt panic creeping in and his breath was cut. The closing of the Breach scalded Haven into a relaxed and joyous fervour, drinks being passed around and empty songs passionately peppering the alleyways. 

He performed a respiratory exercise, exhaling and inhaling as deeply as possible. He closed his eyes and purged his mind. _I am in control. I will let lust seep through the empty fortress and give it nothing but bare lands. I will let it pass through me unscathed as it audaciously invaded. I will not yield._ He straightened his back and took another sip of the ale in front of him; it had barely been touched previously. 

_Denerim is laying low. The Korcari Wilds are continuing their search. The Frostback Mountains are marching towards Orlais…_ he recalled his notes to the agents, in hopes to remain anchored into his purpose.

He lazily scanned the tavern, observing. He had no desire to be present at their victorious festivities and yet he forced himself to as to not raise suspicions. Plus, he was there on the extended invitation of the mages. Cassandra gave him complete control over riling and preparing them to channel their forces towards the Breach, and it seemed that he did not lose his battlefield presence to the Uthenera. 

A curious faint sense of belonging washed over him as quickly as it arrived. These were not his People, but they accepted him. He wondered how long it would be until they would also turn on him; would it be before or after his secret would be revealed? Will he be useful enough for them to see past him being an... apostate? A pastless flat-ear? History always repeats itself, only the silhouettes on the tapestry change.

Which was why their happiness will only be momentary. The magister’s clock is ticking -  _and when will it stop?_

***

“Move. Now.” 

Mirwen’s command was steady and determined; with no shout, she made it clear there was no room for disobedience. She was a leader in her own right, making the hard choices no one else could. 

Sharp pain resonated within as he ran alongside Blackwall and Dorian. He could tell they were as unhappy as he was about his predicament. For all their differences, she managed to instil a devotion in her inner circle, none of his peers complaining once about having to back her up during this rotten assault. Well, that was only a half-truth, as Sera vocalised her displeased thoughts, but never steadied her haste in following the Herald in her battle.

_The Herald_. He barely noticed when he switched to referring to her by her human-given title and suddenly he understood his Elvhen soldiers’ feelings a lot better. It gave him hope that she would prevail, that she was above the footmen, the scouts and the mages, invincible and indispensable for the world to continue its course.

And she was, but that was beside the point. The title made her a symbol that was above true death, one that he was happy to embrace for this reprise. _Would they recognise her sacrifice?_ He thought angrily, the cynical in him erupting. _Would they make another martyr, just to close this cycle’s course and to begin another one anew?_ Was she just disposable for them? Afterall, she was an elf, a nomad and therefore not a slave to the chains of a master or a city’s hierarchy, she was a mage trained outside of the Circle, without a Harrowing to shield their fears. 

The ground shook from the low hum of the magister’s echoing words as they entered the Chantry.

“Solas, bunch up that raggedy coat of yours if it impairs your run that much and come already!” Dorian shouted to him.

His feet were heavy with guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else felt a strong urge to just hug their party members after In Hushed Whispers ?


	4. ... et Rursum ad Initum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas is trying to cope with the burden of his mission.

 

He saw Cullen carry Mirwen towards the Revered Mother’s tent. He had wrapped her in his own cloak and her head laid serene on the fluffy fur-padded shoulders. A solemn silence fell over the camp as the Commander strode. The stillness in the air was almost palpable.

Solas kept his distance from the settlement’s core. This would be a vital moment for the Inquisition: they saw their nemesis, they heard him talk about his plan and his weapon and, most importantly, they saw their hero fall at the hand of the magister and his pet dragon – and then rise miraculously.

The leaders started arguing, which was never a good sign in times of war, especially in front of their troops. They were so green, playing heroes, emboldened by their faceless god.

In an instant, the distance between them seemed to stretch and he saw them again as before – nothing more than beings cut off from the Fade. No song to them, no echoing magic to rhythmically give them strength and knowledge, crumbling when their only connection to the land beyond the Veil laid icy and unconscious at their feet. He felt the weight of immortality on his shoulders, more rooted into the ground beneath the dense snow rather than to the people he had travelled to safety with. Their Tranquility sharpened his features and rendered his expression impenetrable. 

He sat on a boulder further away from the camp. Gathering a leg underneath himself, he slouched his shoulders and let his staff lazily fall on one of them. 

This world had one chance at salvation and they had left her alone to face the abomination. Now that they had her back, they tossed her to a tent and started their meaningless debates on faith. All that she achieved was burnt to nothingness when a film of panic covered the lightless eyes of the Inquisition. 

_Hopeless_ , Solas whispered to himself, watching them scramble. They were making his inevitable choices easier. 

He was happy that he had the presence of mind to send his agents the entirely opposite way from which Corypheus’s forces attacked; he had advised a change of course at the last minute. He was even happier that this moment of clarity washed away his thoughts of infatuation with the Herald. 

He launched another lazy gaze towards a fiery Cassandra and he knew it was going to be a long night. Sighing, he relaxed his shoulders and placed his staff on his lap, shifting his legs in a more comfortable position. 

He drifted towards the Fade. 

The camp dissipated, as did the snow; the land beneath him radiated with a low hum of magic, and the rock formations across from him began to slowly depart.

It wasn’t a very interesting part of the Fade, but nevertheless he enjoyed the silence. He had been tired, his muscles aching beneath his skin and his lids – curtains of lead. The tension that he felt during Corypheus’s assault was gently absorbed by the smoky tendrils of this parted world. The events flashed before him: the echoing bells, the torches of the red army, the frightened embers in the soldiers’ eyes, the scrambling towards the trebuchets, the subterranean escape of the Inquisition, the sweeping dragon and Mirwen’s abandonment, his despair as the camps moved further with no signs of her steps behind.   

He exhaled open-mouthedly, letting the memories be scattered by the gustless winds of the Fade.

The familiar feeling of confliction was slowly starting to creep in his thoughts, though he became quite masterful at repressing it in his past months with the Inquisition. He could not remember when it even began, but as long as he could maintain his distance from its beacon he would be safe.

In the Fade, fragments of his youth would manifest themselves, peeking through his skin, shedding his self-imposed veil with each step that he took. It was his dream, and he could manipulate it however he wanted, but more importantly it served as a reminder of his mission. 

He shuddered when long braids brushed over the back of his neck and the weird discomfort of heavy rings around the cartilage of his ears. The feeling quickly dissipated, as his stride took him farther from his sleeping point.

He scouted the area quickly, though the broken aspect of the Fade made it difficult to figure out his surroundings. He marked his displeasure with a low hum.

He attempted to follow the faint footsteps that were revealed to him, now without much purpose to his travel. It would be a long trek for the Inquisition’s forces to find a more stable settlement, and it made him wonder if they would even have enough resources for all the people to make the journey. If only he could figure out where Haven’s subterranean paths led them to, if only there was a way to map out the area, carve the mountains, lift the snow, search the skies…

_Tarasyl’an Te’las_.

The words stopped him in his tracks.

He had avoided the stronghold as much as he could, for even the thought of it opened old wounds. There was no telling if he would even recognise it as his own – it was bound for others to have claimed ownership over it, but the spirits would still linger.

It was ironic, in a way. There was nothing more he wished for than reminders of his mission: being banished and ridiculed by the Dalish for his knowledge and help just as he used to be by the Elvhen, mages being persecuted and hunted, being hated for being an apostate and called a hedge mage, the derogatory names he heard being muttered about himself for his race in Haven, her vallaslin … and yet he shuddered at the most blatant keepsake of his actions: the very blasted place where he created the Veil. He felt like a snake crawling back into its hole, dragging trusting people after itself as it slithered to coil around the burning lie of his existence in these gruesome times.

There must be a different place they could go. He could not return there, not with them. _Not with her_.

Clamour ripped him away from the Fade. He awoke startled, but he soon realised there was no danger: Mirwen was standing amidst settled leaders and a soft singing voice was shadowing her.

He stood up, curious, and used his staff to help him navigate through the snow towards the hearth.

Incredulous, he witnessed the Inquisition following the Revered Mother; one by one, they each added their voice to the desperate chant’s pool, filled with hope and veneration. Dropping to their knees, only Mirwen’s willowy silhouette remained standing. 

They had no magic of their own, but the act stirred with familiar energy. They had accepted an elf – a Dalish no less, impenitently marked by Dirthamen’s vallaslin, a mage – unapologetically showing her support for their freedom and showing her skills at every step of her path, and a blatant heretic to the Andrastian Chantry: loud prayers to the Evanuris left her lips on numerous occasions.

Suddenly, a patch of colour washed over this world and with it, a seed of doubt was planted in his mind. 

*** 

It troubled him. 

He had been almost considering telling her of his entire plan by a flickering veilfire torch. Instead, he confessed the knowledge of the orb’s origins. Was it pride? Did he truly feel the need to divulge that the blighted magister was playing god with his power? Or was he hoping that his self-imposed chains would be broken once she knew?

_The chains had been tightened on my wrists the moment I had created the Veil. It is a burden I alone must carry_ , he told himself, more of a mantra than a plain reminder.

The hunters had managed to bring back two wild druffalos and they were now rationed between the hungry people gathered by the fire. Solas did not attempt to join them; apart from not feeling very hungry given the recent events, he was perfectly content with the herb soup they had earlier in the day.

He could not help but wonder if his agents managed to reach some sort of safety. He had some overzealous spies that he hoped were not taking matters into their own hands, to check on the magister. 

“I brought you your share,” Mirwen’s voice broke his chain of thoughts. 

“Thank you, but it is not necessary. The night guard would benefit more from this.”

Mirwen’s unwavered and insistent look, coupled with her silent sitting next to him made Solas reach for the morsel she was extending to him. 

“We have a long journey ahead of us, it’s best if you ate some meat along with the soups. You can’t just live off of boiled Elfroot.” 

The shred of concern in her amusement made him smile to himself. They ate their rations in silence. 

Mirwen slouched her shoulders, making patterns in the snow with the heel of her boots. 

“How long do you think we will be wandering around?” she asked quietly. “These people… they trust me and look for any command I can give them. I never asked for this and it’s beginning to be harder and harder to fake confidence.”

She looked towards the flickering lights scattered around the camp, their far and high resting place transforming the tents in dark silhouettes obstructing the chattering gatherings.

He sighed.

“Leliana has sent scouts to scour the area. They are bound to find something, though it would be best if you were to lead the expeditions, to give them hope that you are still protecting them,” he replied carefully. There was no way around this new role bestowed upon her. 

“I know”, Mirwen replied, defeated. “I sometimes wish I had never left my clan, though that would have been impossible; I was told to come and spy on the conclave and it was either that or be thrown out.” 

“That is … unexpectedly harsh”, Solas frowned.

“Someone needed to rise to the occasion, and after annoying Keeper Deshanna that we should stop idly waiting for the Shemlen to ruin our way of life, I had to be sent. Plus, what better way to train as a First, to keep Fen’Harel at bay, than to instead run right into a crazed demon mage and apparently ruin his plans”, she laughed grimly. 

Solas didn’t know what to say. He instead focused his attention to a point at the horizon, and it seemed that Mirwen preferred the silence anyway.

Their stillness was backed by the camp’s attempt at joyous fervour; their closeness must have stemmed from their perceived shared ancestry, her longing to be with her clan again clearly showed that. They had shared opinions and knowledge before, so it was not unexpected of her to seek his reassurance now. Them being mages surely brought them even closer – and this closeness was a danger to Solas’s thoughts. 

Which is why it was surprising that he had repressed all these thoughts, in favour of tracing swirling shapes in mid-air. The spell was similar to creating veilfire, though without a physical vessel the green flames simply danced beneath his fingers before dissipating. In his youth, he had enjoyed painting and he often lost himself in creating intricate murals, but without paint, parchment or a wall, he had to make do with what he could.

Mirwen raised her head, watching the flickering flames take the shape of a hastly-drawn halla, dissipating, then being replaced by a new drawing. He was a bit too concentrated on the depictions, though he imagined that the green light casted a wonderful tinge on her chestnut, wavy hair. 

“I didn’t know you could draw, Solas”, she finally broke the silence, amazement reading through her words.

“I try my best”, he chuckled. “Do you want to try?”

The small shards of veilfire flickered and died out before touching the snow, and they were left in the silvery light of the moon once again.

She gathered her legs beneath her and extended her arm. Taking a deep breath, she invoked a translucent orb of veilfire and lifted it from her palm, dragging flames from it with her fingers.

“I’m not quite as good as you are”, she said, sheepishly.

“Does it matter?” he said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. 

He watched her as she experimented with different swirls and lines made without a purposeful shape; he chimed in from time to time, with swirls of his own, creating ripples and small vortexes in her drawing. The sounds of the camp slowly began to muffle in his ears and he could only hear her crystalline laughter as she tried to give meaning to the shapes. 

“I’ll show you something”, he cheerfully broke their patterns, standing up. “Come up.” 

She eagerly jolted up, expectedly looking towards him. Her cloak rustled around her freely, unobstructed by her usual staff. 

“Do you recall how to make shards of ice?” 

“Yes, kind of”, she said, trailing her answer.

“Try invoking half a dozen and break them apart. Let them fall slowly around you”, he instructed.

Without hesitation, she channelled the magic through her fingers. The ice would be more rounded than they would have been if she used her staff, which was ideal for his idea. He waited for her to be done, and the moment he saw the first shards floating he raised his hand and flicked his fingers, once again creating veilfire but trapping it in ice. He could not suppress a smile when Mirwen’s adorned her face. 

“Look at us, two apostates, practicing weird magic right in the view of the Inquisition’s camp, and we haven’t yet been lynched. Combined with drawing and veilfire fireflies, when will the surprises end?” she laughed.  

He simply amusedly shrugged. Somehow, he just couldn’t help himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say this time around. I just wanted to write some fluff along with a bit of conflicted Solas.


	5. Of Gallows and Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas struggles to remain on the sidelines.

 

The soil gathered in his fist gently ruptured from beneath his fingers, scattering over the shapeless mound in front of him that now stood almost as tall as he was. Solemnly, he circled the bizarre structure, tracing shallow valleys into it with stiff digits. Fragments of his old magic, now only memories of greatness, fractured from between his lips in low and asynchronous notes. His stride caught up with the rhythm, and with each step he took his heels dug deeper into the mud. He persevered, moving his weight towards the balls of his feet, moving with stronger purpose and he felt lighter, gliding with each high note.

The mound shaped feet, muscular yet lithe, tightly bound in thin straps of everknit wool.

“Hamin in revasan,” his whisper barely a breath.

His movements became a trudge, his legs heavy with his own words, yet he continued, ever-enduring. His fingers dug deeper and deeper, shaping the dirt into his palm as he went. He closed his eyes, acutely aware of the cold brushes on his skin, slithering further and coiling onto his arm. He twisted and turned his hand, grasping and liberating the new sensation, until it mirrored his motions and shape.

“Lasa revas,” he continued, clenching his fist onto the clothed arm, before letting it move towards the top of the mound. 

He stopped, facing his creation: the nodes and mudded colours rippled violently with each breath that it took, choked, grasping for an exhale. He straightened his shoulders, standing tall and imposing, though fear ripped through his own inhales. Sinuous waves broke the mound, chiselling and rounding its head. Milky eyes peered at him, separated from their body yet fixed in their sockets, awaiting his next move with all-knowing anticipation. It urged to be fed – a primal need to feel. 

“Dirth mir enasalin,” he commanded, raising his voice. 

He clutched his chest with trembling hands, his breathing intensifying. He closed his eyes. His fingers began to inelegantly rummage through warm liquid, his fingers pushing through knotted threads. He searched deep within for all his needs, his lust, his shame, all condensed into the furthest corner of his being. The tips began to heat, and he felt the sensation ragingly creeping through his veins. He reached the incandescent orb, burning his fingers along with his palm. It took all his strength to rip it out of his being, and even more presence of mind to gaze upon it. Silver threads and thin strands still bound them together and he felt the sense of loss and damnation severely. 

The orb was opaque, milky and radiated a pulsing, orange glow. Save for the sudden flashes of fire, it would have almost looked serene. The weight on his palm was as conflicting as the thoughts it burnished into his mind: it craved to be placed into its rightful place, above all reason and logic, yet it urged to be tossed as far away as possible. 

With ragged breath, he brought it higher, between himself and the he – modelled from soil. The cloudy eyes gained clarity, piercing him with stormy gaze. 

“Dirthara-ma, Harellan,” he spoke one last time, his voice powerful and earth-shaking, as he shoved the orb into his reflection.

Solas did not expect to have to brace for an impact. The explosion threw him away from his improvised altar onto distant rocks. He could feel their jagged edges digging into his spine and the taste of iron was strong on his tongue. He closed his eyes firmly, coughing and choking on warm blood. His mind was descending on a spiral, yet he could not tell if the vertigo was from his current sorry state or if the land was actually moving. He brought calloused and clenched fingers to his temples, before digging the heel of his hands over his eyes, digging his nails into his forehead. He tried to scream, but his voice was muffled.    

Hands coiled around his body. _Hands? Claws?_ It mattered not, because they dragged him deeper into the hard edges of his newfound coffin. Tens, hundreds, thousands… millions were grasping at him unceremoniously. Their chant was a faint whisper, though became louder with each tug. 

_Trickster._

_Traitor._

_Deceiver._

Their voices were a melange of despair and fury, ripping through him physically. His lids tiredly lifted, and he watched the cloudy sky above Haven, losing himself in the verdant vortex of the Breach.

They were bringing him to justice. They would bring him to eternal justice if he failed. Ultimately, they were bringing him home, for this was the only purpose that had always been expected from him.

_Vhenas_ , he whispered, confused at the term. And in his confusion, his mouth was caught by honeyed lips; warmth shot through him and he could breathe again. He desperately grabbed her jaw and drank her kiss as if it was the air that filled his lungs. He lost himself in the sensation, his torso lifted from the ground, trying to tug at the closeness, to bring their bodies together – he felt himself slipping. The claws beneath tightened even fiercer, piercing through him and dragging him lower.

This was his price to pay – his attempt at leaving his undeserved feelings behind in his dream had failed.

_Wake up_.

His eyes flashed open. 

The sun was barely creeping onto the horizon, though the camp was already agitated – it was time to move further into the snowy wastes. Where to, he couldn’t tell if they knew.

It was not often that he was unable to let go of unnecessary feelings; the ritual was familiar, easy even, and it should have been safe. He should not be bend and frightened by his own thoughts. He chastised himself through clenched teeth; how was this possible? He thought his willpower had been stronger than this, yet here he was feeling conflicted – and over what?

_This is not real, this is not your time, these are not your people._ The mantra had become more frequently needed as the days went by and he had an increasingly hard time in believing it. Even his own inner voice was rigid when reciting.

He had started sleeping in his gear due to the cold, since the thick pelts did not suffice, and his force was still nowhere close to its peak. He drew a quick fire glyph into his palm and rubbed his hands together, the magic barely sufficient to warm his stiff bones. He began gathering his bag and the few items that he scattered before falling asleep – a couple of parchments, a mug and a thread that he had been meaning to fasten around his staff as a makeshift grip. The heavy pelts needed to be rolled up, together with his tent. _My tent_ , he noted absently. He was grateful that his status as an apostate elf made enough people uncomfortable with sharing their space with him. Him being a self-proclaimed hedge mage added a secondary layer of abstention, thus none of the rebels recruited at Redcliffe had been keen on any close proximity towards him. And so, he was granted his own tent. It was rather generous of Cassandra to do so, considering that these were precious resources after all. Solas supposed she looked after her people, though he could not necessarily tell if she had specifically his wellbeing in mind. 

In the time they occupied Haven, he could tell that he managed to win the respect of many of his peers, though he did not put that much effort into it. He had done just enough to not be further suspected of treason after his first days of caring for Mirwen had been unfruitful. 

His fingers stopped mid-air as he was about to coil his scarf around his mouth. Those days had been torturous; he was just about done with the Dalish by the time he reached Cassandra’s camp by the temple of Sacred Ashes and quite frankly he had been resigned to view the Anchor’s vessel as nothing more than that: just a pitcher held together by his own inertia, barely comprehending its own importance within the universe and his master plan, ready to be spilled at any moment and with it, the never-ending spilling of mortal blood. It had been a revelation to realise that curiosity had been his undoing for an uncountable time. Under the premise of studying the Anchor, he was really only studying her; they were now two people aware that she had been a mistake, though this attribute was bestowed upon her with different meaning. Whereas he was sure that the darkspawn-magister viewed her as nothing more than a vermin begging for a painful death, Solas recognised her thriving in these bizarre conditions that should have realistically brought her to a swift end – as if she never existed.

_So, is it her power?_ He asked himself, as he continued to fasten his scarf, carefully pushing his ears through the incisions that he had made in the attached hood. _Is it her power that is so intriguing?_ He knew the answer as soon as his inner voice finished the question. It was ridiculous to think that after living through the age of Elvhenan and experienced unadulterated, exquisite and truly magnificent magic this was what made him stop dead in his tracks.

He took his staff, bag and rolled-up pelts outside of the tent and began the dismantling process. His neat pile of items was well out of the way of the buzzing crowd, yet he could not stop his reflex of throwing fugitive glances towards his only possessions. 

“Sister Leliana said that we are continuing East, yes?” a shivering woman asked her equally trembling partner as they were passing him.

“That’s what I’ve been told. At this rate we might as well end up at the Winter Palace. The empress will be very happy with us Ferelden dogs”, his answer came, punctuated with a loud scoff.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The Herald knows what she is doing. We have way too many patients for them to run us around the mountains.”

Their dialogue ended abruptly, and they hurried their pace. Solas was too tired to play a guessing game over why they just had to leave his patch of land as they reached him, when all but his actual magical skills had been widely visible to them. Although he was respected by some, he was still feared and prejudiced against by many. It seemed that his general demeanour was too hard to look past and they just couldn’t treat him as any other elf, even when he was not wearing his staff. The conflicting looks had carried his amused outlook through many “knife/flat-ear” comments. When he did wear his weapon, he could almost sense an attempt at a parting through the crowds.

_They could find something to the East. They are bound to find something,_ he reassured himself, without sparing a single thought over their course.

He neatly rolled the tent around the pelts, tying the bundle up with ropes. The movements had been done solely on muscle memory, as he was far too entranced by the collective movements of the camp’s people. He would have to join the serpentine queue towards the communal cauldron and grab himself a mugful of bland soup, lest he would be lost again in self-chastising thoughts.

He threw his bag over his shoulders and began to fasten his staff on the leather strap on his back, his half-stiff fingers fumbling at the closing mechanism.

He finally began his march towards the brontos; he had planned his itinerary in his mind: leave the bundled-up tent with the others’, grab a portion of food, attend the Commander’s morning briefing. As long as he kept his involvement low, Solas would surely manage to be as far away as possible from Mirwen and would be able to just kick-back and enjoy the ride towards a new headquarters for the Inquisition. A clean, scouted area found by Leliana and the Herald, none of his involvement tainting this decision, just as it was intended by the chaotic winds that swept all his original plans.

His eyes peered the tent disassembling processes, enjoying the bizarre serenity that came with such a mindless task; they had all being following the procedure for long enough to be a routine, and the renewed faith for the Herald was truly a spell of its own. They were ready to follow her through blizzard and pyres, towards their promised home.

_But what if they won’t find anything to the East._

His stride was slowed by this new revelation, and he felt ash in his mouth. This was not about his plan, his orb, the Veil, the Eluvians, his people, his pride, his fears. He was fooling himself into not sensing the pulsing veins of the Inquisition, their happiness that cloaked their desperation, or their cold fingers as they touched the cheeks of immobilised loved ones in the healer’s tent. He was blinding himself at their suffering, that he brought on them, and towards which he now did not want to take responsibility. The thick glass he raised between himself and these people was not quite as opaque as he had hoped, but truly he did not know what he had hoped. He had never been heartless nor cruel, and would being so now not betray himself? He had taken a vow to himself to bring an end to suffering if he could.

_Fenedhis_.

He turned on his heels and moved rapidly towards Mirwen’s tent. It had been shared with Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana, though none of them seemed to be around it from what he could see in his haste. He had to act quickly; he knew where approximately they were along the mountains comparatively to Tarasyl’an Te’las as the Fade could not stop taunting him with paths towards it over the past few nights, but he needed to convince her to change the Inquisition’s course fast enough as to not waste any more recovery time for the injured. Remorse was peppering his thoughts with each step he took, and he wished he could have been strong enough to get over his previous fears faster.

_There she is_. A wave of relief washed over him. He hadn’t interacted with Mirwen since his ill-calculated efforts to bring her happiness with silly veilfire tricks, or at least not more than quick nods while grabbing their rationed food.

He approached her, and realised she was in the middle of talking to one of the scouts. He did not even attempt to listen to their discussion, his mind was a knotted mess of remorse, relief and recourse.

“A word”, he finally spoke in his usual calculated tone, the hint of gravity being enough for Mirwen to frown as the scout was hurriedly departing towards the assembly.

“You only use this tone when Vivienne makes a mistake in casting her Ice Armor. Should I be worried?” she attempted to joke, though her tone did not betray any jest. 

“I have been conducting some exploration on my own through the Fade”, he began, carefully, “and it seems that Sister Nightingale is guiding us towards an empty path. We are more likely to be lost in the Frostback Mountains than find a viable refuge.”

She angled her head and he suddenly worried that she wouldn’t heed his warning. Afterall, he was accusing the Inquisition’s very capable Spymaster of doing a poor job at dispatching her agents. He couldn’t tell if the silence was really stretching into awkwardness or if his perception of time was simply distorted by his growing worry.

“What do you suggest?” she finally asked. “I don’t know if you are aware, but we are set to continue East and hope to find a village towards Orlais. What other course should we take?”

He stifled a sigh of relief, maintaining his proper posture and an impassable tone.

“I will ask you to trust me, but we should march North,” he replied, waiting for a moment for any objection. “Far North, along the mountains, closer to Orzammar than to the Sacred Ashes.”

“What?! Solas, we can’t, we have so many wounded and there is nothing along the mountains for Creators know how big of a distance,” her quick response came, with an attempt at keeping her voice down.

“You must trust me, Herald. There is a stronghold whose ownership has changed many hands during its history, but it will be more than capable of housing the Inquisition and prevent an assault the magnitude of the one we have seen at Haven.”

She pinned him with her gaze; she was no longer looking at him with shy eyes nor with the admiration she would have given an elder – it was pure determination, standing together as equals. She peered towards the fervour behind his tense shoulders. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Solas clenched his grip on his wrist, keeping his hands behind his back; the urge to soothe her inner struggle with a soft caress on her cheek was as unbearable as it was inappropriate.

“Are you sure we will find this stronghold?” she finally broke the silence, her lids still shielding her mystically green eyes. 

“I am positive”, he firmly replied.

“And are you sure it will be empty now?”

“No”, he replied truthfully. “But it is a gamble over which I am willing to risk my credibility.”

She opened her eyes and he could almost feel warmth from her expression. _You are only just another advisor to her, get a hold of yourself._

“Very well, Solas. I know you don’t make such promises lightly. I shall let Cullen know that he needs to send men towards the North. Go and get your soup, if any is left.”

He simply nodded in acknowledgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamin in revasan. - Rest where the freedom dwells.  
> Lasa revas. - Give me freedom.  
> Dirth mir enasalin. - Speak of my victory.  
> Dirthara-ma, Harellan - May you learn, Trickster.  
> Vhenas - home
> 
> Solas often seems to retreat to the Fade, so would it be so surprising if he attempted to leave there some unwanted pieces of himself?


	6. Fortune Favours the Rested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which the Inquisition is struggling to keep trekking through the snow, and its members bond over their shared fatigue and their irritability caused by their situation.

 

They had picked up the pace shortly after Solas’s discussion with Mirwen and this had been the second consecutive day of almost uninterrupted trek through the mountains. He had never been particularly keen on snow and its afferent cold, but now he really longed for that one fluffy pelt to be wrapped around his shoulders. Uthenera had been rather gentle on his physique, but it had been unbelievably harsh on his powers in return. He felt it most when he was tired, which made him acutely aware of how many things he took for granted when he had immeasurable magic at his disposal. 

Cold feet, for instance, were a perfect example. He had wrapped them into a combination of spirit and fire magic, and fatigue was now threatening to unravel the meticulous charring web he had weaved into the barrier’s tessellation. His toes tingled whenever warmth pulsed through the spirit edges towards broken fire vertices, where the cold seeped through. _One lost night’s sleep and I can’t even cast a simple footwrap_ , he frowned as the words clung in his mind, fixating his gaze towards his next steps. The remnants of the blizzard were impairing his vision, so he resolved to clutching his staff tighter and channelling a faint pathfinding thread towards the pack’s leaders. He made no effort in deciding who he would attach it to, but he supposed the spell was cast far enough to reach Cassandra at the very least. 

He was lying to himself, though. He hadn’t been able to sleep peacefully for too many nights since his attempt at the emotion separation ritual, even with all the trudge they were subjected to daily. 

During the first night, the Fade forced him to relive the moments of the creation of the Veil. He knew that the closer they got to Tarasyl’an Te’las the more frequent these moments would be, but he hadn’t expected them to start right now. He woke up in the middle of the night covered in cold sweat, heaving, and he was thrown right back into the ritual the moment he had managed to fall back asleep. He couldn’t tell if the Fade simply wanted to torture him endlessly, if it wanted him to make amends faster to those still asleep, or if it was actually doing him a service and forcing him to come to terms with the view of the stronghold before reaching it. He resolved to choosing the latter regardless of the real intention of the dreams, and he was almost sure he wouldn’t feel daggers in his heart if he saw the large golden arches of his library again. But, then again, what is a few daggers to the heart when you can feel the sorrowful magic clinging to the walls?

He adjusted his scarf over his nose when a gust of wind was slightly harsher on the bridge of his nose for his liking. 

The night when he had finally come to terms with living in his least favourite stronghold, the Fade decided to show him the Hinterlands. He was far too tired to shape his own dream, so he had no choice but reliving these kinder memories, but just as troubling. He was watching Mirwen longingly as they ran across the lands, searching for additional agents. Her leather coat was cinched just above her hips and the only thing he could think of in his fatigued dreaming state was just how much more attractive that coat would look tossed aside in a pile of clothes inside a random tent of an Inquisition camp, filled with heat, their combined scents and her loud moans. He had woken up again before dawn and spent seemingly endless minutes filling his mug with snow, melting it, cooling it again then splashing his face with the ice-cold water. It was on that day – night? – when he shaved his head again, with a detached staff blade, and nipped his left thumb in the process.

It hadn’t been quite as bad as the following night, when he discovered that he attracted a Desire demon. The deep sleep into which he fell, naively, was enough for his mind to be reckless and act on his lust. It was when Mirwen was lowered on her knees in front of the plush Arlathanian divan on which he was seated, fingernails leaving crimson trails along his sides and hungrily looking up in his eyes, did he realise that something was terribly off. 

_“I shall not be poisoned, temptress!”_ He had yelled with broken voice, changing the setting and his dishevelled state with the last fragment of energy he had amassed before falling asleep. 

The demon had grinned at him, taunting. “ _We both know that is a lie, Fen’Harel. You could stay here, with me, where you can indulge in all those feelings safely. Or… I could guide you outside of the Fade into this fantasy of yours and you could just enjoy the ride.”_

Solas did not even attempt to answer, he simply straightened his pose, tiredly closed his eyes and dismissed the demon with a flick of his wrist. The walls of the dream chamber dissolved along with Desire, into an amethyst smoke.

That was the last of his power reserves, and, with its draining, came along another sleepless night. 

_This is madness. I need to rest._  

Which brought him here, at the end of how-many tiresome days, digging his staff into the snow in the hopes that it would help him keep standing tall. Luckily, the harsh conditions were a very good reason for anyone to hang their head low, so he didn’t feel quite as outlandish by almost dragging his feet behind him. 

“In times like these it’s really hard to justify leaving Minrathous,” Dorian said, sounding equally as dreadful as he felt. 

Solas scoffed. “You face a minor inconvenience and your whole purpose is challenged?”

“Ah yes, strolling through a blizzard after sleepless nights is just as annoying as discovering that my coiffed hair doesn’t hold itself quite the same after sleeping in tents. Minor inconvenience, indeed.” Dorian retorted, slightly snappier than usual. 

“Don’t you have others you would rather walk with?” His tired tone earned a sigh from the other mage.

“I am not exactly welcome with open arms. I’m sure you understand. The big bad Tevinter magister is a hard title to live down.” 

_We are nothing alike_ , he replied, though he did not give sound to the thoughts, and simply let the silence be filled with the crackling of the snow beneath their staves. 

The golden path-thread halted its undulations – Cassandra must’ve stopped.

It was barely a decent place to camp, so this must be just a short reprise to tend to the wounded and maybe eat. With all his silent protesting, he would have rather continued walking until they found a more secluded area; should a blizzard start again, they didn’t have the comfort of any of the forested patches they’ve had for the previous camps.

“Care for some glorified root water, Solas?” Dorian said, placing himself on the ground nonchalantly, oblivious to the uncomfortable space he had just occupied as the rebel mages were catching up to them. Their struggle to pass him didn’t seem to faze the Tevinter one bit.

“No, thank you. Yesterday’s rations were… sufficient,” he responded, leaning onto his staff and looking around, trying to figure out what region they reached. Not like it helped him much without the aid of the Fade; the mountains had changed enough for him to feel lost.

A band of scouts and former templars were dispatched again as it was their custom, to check the areas ahead. Cullen’s War Cry pierced the air, and in response the Inquisition army saluted. It wasn’t an unusual sight to behold; the soldiers were filled with adrenaline before beginning to surround the camp and march outwards in concentric circles. Even if their biggest threat was unaware of their location, other threats remain, and they had to be dealt with as swiftly as possible.

It was bizarrely cathartic to hear the Commander’s battlecry; back in Haven, this was the start of their morning practice, and Solas would venture on the natural battlements to witness their faith in action. Although he abandoned his order, Cullen was able to fight fiercely and inspire the same dedication in his subordinates. Men and women alike possessed a fire in their eyes that was all too familiar to him.

Josephine was similarly delegating tasks around the camp now; she had excellent organisational skills and had a place for everything and everyone. Her gentle words, though delivering devastating news, managed to keep the Inquisition in its lines. Not one person outside of the Herald’s inner circle was actively complaining about the conditions.

He had seen this power in action in Haven. She was masterful in her grasp of the Game and she did not hesitate to apply its weapons in any situation. Rowdy nobles were quickly subdued, quarrelling templars and mages were easily calmed, and caravans were swiftly assimilated.

He supposed he missed those simpler times. Back when they couldn’t place a face to their suffering, or a voice to their nightmares. Back when the unknown of the Breach and the Divine’s death was the biggest mystery, with few, clear branches extending from those questions. 

But now, new leaves had sprouted, and nothing was right for them anymore.

The nights spent playing chess with the Commander had been more soothing than he realised as they were happening, as were the Ambassador’s inquisitive questions about his journeys. Maybe not all would be lost once they reached Tarasyl’an Te’las.

_No. Skyhold_. The translation of the stronghold’s name into the common tongue brought him a wave of relief he was unprepared for, though it broke his train of thoughts just as he saw the Iron Bull and his mercenary band approaching them. 

“Say, how would you both feel about a good old hunting session?” the Qunari asked them eagerly.

“Hunt?! Where? We’re on a bare plateau”, Dorian answered without standing up.

“Skinner saw a wild druffalo half a kilometre ago, we might find even more if we go towards that point.”

Iron Bull turned to look at Solas with eager eyes. His enthusiasm was enticing and the prospect of eating solid food was incredibly tempting. 

“We do not know how long we will stay here. It seems like this is just a provisory settlement and we should be back on the road soon,” he finally replied, hazarding a fugitive look towards where he last saw Mirwen. 

“These people need better food and we need a fight. I’d say that is a situation where we can all win. Krem can tell Josephine that it’s best we camped here for the night, or at least enough time for us to bring back some game.” 

Dorian sighed.

“And I need something other than soup,” he answered, propping himself up with his staff.

Solas looked at them for a moment, before nodding. 

“Yes!” Iron Bull’s ecstatic cheer garnered a few confused looks from some lost scouts. “Here, drink this”, he extended them each a waterskin from his bag. 

“What’s this?” Dorian asked wearily. 

“A different type of soup”, Iron Bull laughed and reached for a waterskin for himself, chugging it in one go.

Solas supposed alcohol was a good way to warm oneself up if one did not possess magic – or, just as likely, if one was terribly exhausted – so he did not hesitate in taking a hearty gulp. Though he had had many bacchian dalliances in his youth, the debauchery never involved spirits of this strength and he suddenly questioned his previously-thought high resistance to alcohol as he added his cough to Dorian’s fit. Iron Bull was likewise affected. 

“What is this?!” Solas managed to spit. 

“Maraas-Lok” the answer came, and the word seemed to fuel the Qunari’s adrenaline. “Enjoy it while you can, Solas, we don’t have that much left of it. It warms you up quite nicely, doesn’t it?”

“Like a roaring hearth in the Seheron summer,” Dorian coughed.

“Come, let’s hunt!”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to explore a bit of tired-Solas and just how much this would affect his self-control and already weak powers.


	7. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which the Inquisition chooses its leader, and Solas chooses his whereabouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains spoilers for The Masked Empire near the end of the chapter.

“Your pain… it hangs over you like a storm cloud, heavy and dark. The further we go, the more it drowns everyone else’s.”

Solas continued the steady stride of the stone against his blade; he did not anticipate feeling the need to get this close to one of the wild druffalos that they had hunted. It was reckless, but the adrenaline rush that swept through him whenever the beast charged at Iron Bull did help alleviate some of the physical tension he had been feeling; carving its sides with the close-combat weapon brought youthful blood into his cheeks and he felt flush with long-forgotten thirst for battle. All that remained, though, was to re-sharpen the staff blade now that it had been cleaned and polished. 

“Cole, is it?” he faced the spirit, giving him a warm smile. He had seen him linger with the injured, soothing them and their visitors. He never got too close to him as to not interfere with Compassion’s senses – there were others who needed his gentle help more.

“I could help you. You’re different… I can see your pain, but you’re guarded. You fear, you flinch, you flog yourself in your dreams. You fragment and your fire flickers small whenever you think of them. Of her.”

Compassion lowered himself to sit in front of him, insistently observing him with worried eyes beneath large-brimmed hat and unruly hair. Solas’s smile slowly died sorrowfully, and his gaze slid to the snow beneath the spirit’s calloused, material hand. He did not need to debate whether Cole needed explanations for his actions or if he required translations for the knotted thoughts that plagued his every respite. He could see right through him. 

No. All Solas could give were his deepest and most sincere apologies. His torture was his own alone, and he never meant for it to be shared with something so pure.

“Don’t be sorry!” Cole said with despair in his tone. “Let me help you!”

His unusual speech pattern punctuated each word, and each fraction of pause tugged at Solas’s heart. The spirits had always been kind to him and he found solace in their unconditional embrace – something that he rarely, if ever, felt from anyone.

“You mustn’t tell them, Cole. It will hurt them more,” he finally replied guessing what course of action the spirit had in mind.

Compassion seemed as if he wanted to protest, though they both knew it would have been in vain. Just as he could see his hurt, he could also sense his will – and it was unwavering. _Your help is best spent elsewhere, falon._

*** 

A large platoon of former templars along with a squad of rebel mages were sent to verify the occupancy of Skyhold, with additional squads of warriors and spellcasters to be sent afterwards in case of a necessity for siege; the last quarter of the Inquisition forces would remain with the camp. For all his worth, Cullen was marching with his men into an unknown stronghold, when the only way in and out was an open bridge that could be easily attacked by defenders. Solas couldn’t help but deeply respect the man’s dedication to his cause and troops.

Ultimately, it was unnecessary. Even from their secluded camping post he could sense the low hum of magic that radiated from Tarasyl’an Te’las, free and welcoming. If only he wasn’t so averse at inhabiting it again, he would have almost thought it was endearing that his magic prevailed though the millennia and could still recognise him.

 “ _You were right, Solas! We found a fortified stronghold just a few kilometres away!”_ Mirwen had told him, a large smile puffing flushed cheeks. She had ventured with a small platoon ahead of the camp, together with Cassandra, Blackwall and Vivienne. He had observed them entering the precarious settlement and expected to be briefed by the Commander as it was the custom – instead, she made a bee-line towards the mages’ tents.

Her happiness drew a chuckle. “ _I am happy to help,_ ” he coyly replied, though his unintentionally suave smirk broke any semblance of modestly by tacitly asking ‘ _Was there any doubt?_ ’ instead.

She had had every reason to doubt him, just like he was doubting himself over the choice of leading them there. The fact that none of them seemed to remember or guess the existence of the stronghold meant that there could be veridicity in his assumption that Tarasyl’an Te’las would be empty.

But those were assumptions. He now had certainty.

Solas had kept his distance from any discussions pertaining the course of actions in seizing the stronghold that the leaders of the Inquisition were conducting. Instead, he had begun a discussion with his fellow inner circle mages over hypothetical barriers that they might’ve encountered. Suppose the age of this mysterious fortress stretched over an unknown amount of years, would protective glyphs – if any – still remain or would walls be reconstructed over them? Vivienne was quick to suggest that either way, templars should lead a potential assault given their powers of magic dispel, and Dorian was most eager to brainstorm the magical fortifications. Although Solas despised the Tevinter mage, he couldn’t not agree that he had an inherent talent for experimental magic and could sense its subtler effects. In his words – “ _I can almost taste a smoky flavour with hints of… grapes? It’s quaint, it almost reminds me of Silent Plains Piquette_.” 

He didn’t want to get involved, but he also couldn’t let them be attacked by his own traps, if any still existed. He would be able to disarm them more efficiently when he would enter the stronghold, later. It wasn’t his place to lead this mission, but maybe he could just _steer_ them a bit, to make this process easier for them.

_It is all for Elvhenan_ , he strongly shook himself to reality, though a mournful tinge clouded his thoughts.

“Right, Chuckles, how do you want to be characterised? Everyone’s already given me their unwanted input, I might as well just ask you,” Varric approached him with nonchalant steps. The dwarf barely threw him a look, and instead was fixated on the misty turrets of Tarasyl’an Te’ – _Skyhold_.

“Grim and fatalistic,” his flat answer came, punctuated by lazily throwing his hood over his head. _Add a bit of brash, too_ , he added in the intimacy of his mind, unsure of his keenness on this change of winds.

***

The rest of the Inquisition followed wearily through the tall gates of Skyhold, unsure of what to make of it. The stronghold was in a dreadful shape: destroyed towers, broken walls, overgrown… unrecognisable.

Solas was almost unable to hide his utter delight.

It seemed that every owner that had passed through the keep felt the need to add their own style to the already perfectly designed facade. He would know, after all he was the one who worked closely with the architects and it had been constructed from mostly his design. The stairs were now devoid of the tall and proud brass wolves that once stood at their base; the massive and ornamented doors had been replaced with what he assumed was a more modest human design – likely Andrastian; the window frames, although still lunging towards the ceilings, housed shards which depicted weathered illustrations and motifs that he had no clue what era they would have belonged to.

This stronghold had always been unusual, as he commissioned it to be made with mostly stone from a local quarry and so it was harder to replicate the usual fluidity of the Elvhenan keeps of his fellow Evanuris’. It served as a military settlement, which dictated a distinctly solemn style from their more welcoming fortresses, but, nevertheless, he still had managed to make it _look_ Elvhen. The larger arches were gone – they had been shaven to the last layer and had been filled with doors. Somewhere in time one of its owners must have deemed his murals to be frivolous. Blasphemous. Or maybe just simply ridiculous and downright unsightly. The brick was now exposed along the main hall’s walls where vivid paintings and golden trimmings once adorned. The mosaic flooring was similarly absent. Only few elements reminded him of the structure that plagued his nightmares, and all spilled in the metaphysic. The magic imbued into the walls was the most blatant traitor – it crawled towards him, wounded, begging to be reunited with its cradle.

Solas breathed deeply. This could work. He could reabsorb the magic he left to guard this wretched place. He could regain a fraction of his power in anticipation of recovering his filched foci. He could reclaim his abilities at the very root of his decay, strengthening his pact of salvation of his people. The thoughts were quickly dispersed, though, as he had gifted the knowledge of the stronghold to the Inquisition precisely for its magic – the stolen power of the magister would never be able to collide with the ancient barriers of Skyhold.

There was now the issue of his conduct in this new settlement: although he has not yet given them a reason to turn on him, his actions so far have been at least peculiar to someone that would possess a sharp eye. He has already underestimated the blighted magister, he should not take his chances within the Inquisition – he has seen how these devout Andrastians treated Mirwen and how they had spoken of her before they realised that danger was upon them and she possessed none. He was not so sure he would have the same warm change of reception once they would realise that he still wanted to help them even though he was responsible for their abhorrent predicament.

He would have to hide in plain sight, always with an alibi.

The commotion in the courtyard broke his train of thoughts for a fraction of a second; he turned on his heels, sweeping the rest of the main hall with his gaze, recalling the layout of the keep. His steps were mechanically taking him towards the gathering crowd, and his mind was extrinsically leading him through the various purposes of the rooms. There were the apartments, the overlook towards the vale beneath, the undercroft, the arcane library – these were out of discussion, as none would be visible to enough people, despite how much he ached to claim his dear library under the main hall.

“Have our people been told?” Cassandra’s voice resonated from the steps he once descended from.

There was the main hall, the garden, the various little buildings that peppered the stronghold – neither would be silent enough for him to do anything meaningful with his time, nor would they be able to place him blatantly under scrutinizing eyes.

“They have. And soon the world.” Josephine responded from somewhere to his right.

There was the tower, with its storage space, the main library and the rotunda – but where would the Inquisition leaders take headquarters? 

“Commander, will they follow?” Cassandra’s voice reverberated for a second time.

There should be people in the library at most times given the large amount of mages within the ranks. The rotunda once housed indoor herb plantations, the combinations of which were meant to stimulate concentration to the researchers and workers above. Other than that, he had just enjoyed decorating the walls with various murals – depicting some of his favourite encounters and great achievements.

“Inquisition, will you follow?” Cullen turned to the frenzied crowd, which responded in a unanimous hail.

But would the rotunda be enough? Would the layout of the tower have survived through the ages? The planters may have been discarded altogether; depending on the next owner, the combination of herb and flowers may have been overwhelming and – he glanced up – the tall windows that would have helped them grow had been discarded completely.

“Will you fight?” the rally continued, and Blackwall and Iron Bull joined the increasingly louder shouts. Solas glanced upwards at the three women with a solemn mask, hitting his staff on the ground off-rhythm from Vivienne and Dorian.

The storage could have been changed. With the removal of the Eluvians, the new owners must have needed a new form of communication. _A rookery_ , he whispered imperceptibly.

“Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!”

Leliana would undoubtly claim it, along with her agents. They would have unobstructed view down towards him – he would be stripped of any walls, all of his work would be visible for not only the spies and scouts, but also the mages, who would be able to understand more of the arcane studies. All of the discussions that he would have would travel from the base of the tower upwards to the ears of the residents. There was only one chink in his plan, and that was the communication with his agents. He had taken the route of coded letters in his time of mourning, for the death of Felassan had taken a toll on him. There was no other way. He would have to walk through dreams once more.

“You have chosen a Dalish elf as your leader even though we are unwelcomed in your cities. You have chosen an apostate mage to guide you through your fears against a corrupted magister. You have shown me support in the face of your Chantry, even though its remaining leaders denounced you.” Mirwen’s unsure voice washed over the silent mass, and broke Solas’s concentration. Although she stood with the former Hands of the Divine, each now assuming their respective symbolic roles beside her, she seemed detached and separated from the two women.

“I claim no greatness,” she continued with resounding voice. “Though I walk with the Anchor, I claim no power but the one you have given me. We have lost good people and many more will follow if we don’t stand together. Let their sacrifice not be in vain.” Mirwen paused, stretching her gaze across the courtyard, enveloping the gathering’s own eyes. 

“I declare the Inquisition for all! We are all Thedas, and we shall serve its people. We will not bow to any Tevinter of old and its army of foul creatures!” 

The crowd erupted in a unified cheer, raising their weapons, and Solas could not help but add his own to the craggy lines that split the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I've been away for awhile, I have managed to sketch out the next chapters, so hopefully I will be back to the frequent updates :D


	8. Burning the Midnight Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas loses another night to his past.

The cold morning dew beneath his bare feet washed invigorating jolts through each step that he took, and the golden dew of the morning rays bathed his scouring eyes. Unforgiving as it was, the light broke through in irregular patterns, not unlike the raw design in the bark that lightly grazed his fingers. Unobstructed by golden and embossed greaves, the tall stems and lush leaves were brushing his shins freely, stopped at the thighs by dark woven trousers and the jagged side of a simple tunic. He halted for a moment, debating whether he should pluck the herb and place it alongside the collection he had gathered in the pouch tightened to his right leg and strung by his belt. His fingers stopped mid-air above the Feladara – he had all he deemed that he needed, and there was no need to claim more from the forest than what was imperative.

No. He would leave the verdant sea untainted, for he was after something far more intriguing.

He tightened the tie around his braids, which had inevitably gotten tangled in the sylvanwood bow that he was carrying as a gust of wind swept the sun’s warmth off his tanned cheeks. The braids had been the only crown he donned today – he left his role behind along with his hunting party. This was a chase he would do alone.

He hadn’t necessarily planned for the stalking himself – it had been a bet, a taunt raised by his neighbouring queen. The huntress was unable to subjugate the demon-beast, and her lament and exaggerations drew loud scoffs from his unchained throat at the last Convergence, which only led him to be further ensnared by this binding pact that he would take it upon himself to slay the beast. He even boisterously announced that he would use a bow, to further shame the huntress-queen, and with no armour to protect him.

This contract never stipulated any arrows, nor did it mention any conjured armour, though, and he knew just how to read between the lines. Solas would have believed that this was an already well-known strength of his, he certainly did not hide it. Alas, Isa readily accepted the flawed bind and gave him unrestricted access to the woods of her kingdom.

A throaty chuckle left his lips. _The mighty Huntress-Queen bested by a wolf on her own grounds, soon-to-be bested by the flaming arrow of a mage_. They had exchanged rewards for their respective side of the bet, each more extravagant and ridiculous, while their fellow kings and queens riled them up with feverish taunts. The times had been generous with them – lost were the days of famine and drought, of the blooded deluge as the sole dampener of the soils. They had baptized the land in scorched fury, pushing back their oppressors and reclaiming their land. There was no telling of this golden age’s leaders’ end, as those that were forgotten would think thrice before attacking again. 

The notes of an old protective spell rippled uncaringly through the now shivering grass, the gust quickening the dew’s drip. He knelt eagerly on one leg, paying no mind that he was only on allied land, and sang his own magic in deep voice. The humming zephyr flashed in green light, its threads exposed, and he expertly weaved his spell’s filaments into the loose pattern floating across his palms. He raised, shoulders straight and back proud, and he followed his voice’s harmonious susurration with keen eye, until the lines dissipated towards the horizon. 

Satisfied with his mark on the enduring spell, he continued his careful walk towards the promised den. Normally, he should have employed less magical tactics, to humour the queen by adopting her way of combat. But, if anyone was familiar with him, they would know that he would take these conventions and throw them aside – flattery could get him far, but mockery was so much more satisfying, especially when it was so openly and invitingly presented to him. There may be a day when he would take a subtler approach to showing his fellow leaders what fools they are, but now was not the day. 

Reckless hunting was also tolerated, but what he really savoured was proving someone wrong – which would be precisely what he would do once he found the beast.

The rustling of leaves far to his left drew a wild smirk – _And so, the chase begins._ _Elgaren lasan em sou!_

With the sylvanwood bow in one hand and crimson ribbons steadily pulsing and coiling around the other, he began to silently approach the source of noise. Slowly, ensuring that only the ball of his foot announced his presence to the ground, he tasted the air for signs of demons. The creature hiding behind the foliage was just that, a material being, but carried the faint odour of a vassal to a greater entity. He was close, and with any luck, he could scare the animal into searching for its pack.

Without hesitation, he angled his body to a side, straight shoulders raising the bow in front of him. With a lazy flick of the wrist and confident roll of his fingers against an invisible sphere in his palm, he caught the string and drew the bow. Only one moment needed to choose his aim – just behind the thick shrubbery – and he snapped his left index finger forward. A fiery arrow split the air before he even remembered to let go of the thread and hit its target. He would have to amend this error of technique. 

The animal was startled, and it began to run. Solas missed no beat and was closely following its steps. Jumping over thick roots and dodging curtains of leaves, he would not miss the creature to the unfolding maze – he fade-stepped forward, just enough to see the silhouette of his game. The demon surely was thinking that it was ahead of its pursuer and was thus thinking it was luring him towards a trap. No ordinary wolf would run away like such without putting up a fight. All the better: let its master think it has the upper hand.

He could hear rustling behind, as well as the faint thump of padded feet running towards him. The animal’s pack was forming an enclosure around him, seemingly to ensure that he would not bail before they reached their destination. _Fear not, falonen, I have no desire to run away now. Your freedom shall be avenged._

Soon, a glade was creeping up between the uncaring trunks, and the first wolf slowed its stride. The wolves behind were urging him forward, and he obliged.

He entered expecting the demon to already be there, waiting for him. Instead, he found golden eyes fixated on him from the soft shadows that fenced the lush grass of the glade. Solas couldn’t suppress a loud chuckle as he swayed towards the claimed arena.

_“As much as I enjoy the company of your pets, I am here for a much more exciting battle. Lasas mar’lin lean, fen’daris!”_

He scanned the trees, lazily throwing his feet into a loose circling around the glade. His smirk slowly died, as his taunts were met with deafening silence. Demonic scent was clasping at the grass in unseen tendrils, and yet its owner was not making itself seen.

Solas closed his eyes; a sacrifice may be wished for. Perhaps one of the wolves, a fragment of his own power or maybe the bow. Perhaps it was waiting for his guards to be down, time in which the pack would be commanded to descend on him in blind mauling, preparing him for the demon. Perhaps it was waiting for the fall of night at the end of a maddening day, after he would slowly become prey to his own fears.

These tactics may have worked on any other elf. Luckily, he was no ordinary elf.

He reached to the small knife he carried attached to his belt; quickly, he grazed his left palm with the sharp blade enough to draw dripping blood. With a new smirk, he lunged his left arm forward and squeezed his fist, letting his magic trickle along with his blood onto the grass beneath him.   

A menacing breeze flushed the golden eyes shut. The demon had been summoned.

_“So, the boastful queen has finally sent her champion,”_ a low but resounding voice filled the glade. _“Tell me, oblivious child, what is this hunt worth for you?”_

Solas turned on his heels; he now faced a towering wolf with night trapped in its fur, and crimson fury in its six slanted eyes.

_“I am champion for no one but myself and I seek nothing but knowledge – of who is right and who is wrong,”_ he answered, grinning without warmth.

_“Is that so,”_ the demon-wolf’s breathed in hearty laughter. _“Then I applaud the queen for finding an even more ignorant child than herself. I can see it in your eyes, it did not even give you pause to think why she would send you to me.”_  

He did not answer and, instead, he pinned the demon defiantly with his gaze. He would not give into his barbs nor his wretched pacts. 

_“I can give you power that no mage of yours has ever seen before,”_ the wolf continued, when the stretching silence became an answer in itself. _“Empires would kneel before you, peoples and leaders alike, and the earth itself would tremble in your walk.”_

_“Power?!”_ Solas sneered. _“That is not something that would interest me. My own magic sustains me and has won my kingdom in a gruesome war, my people follow me in battle freely and women share my bed anytime I wish for, at their own accord. I rule with free will at my side, I have no need for forceful order.”_

_“I can give you knowledge that you so desperately seek. I can tell you what the petulant queen was after when she encountered me and what deal I had made her.”_

The demon now began to menacingly walk a loose circle around him, letting the ends of its fluffy tail brush lightly against his bare shins.

_“You are mistaken if you think I desire such an information,”_ Solas answered with unwavering concentration. _“I have no interest in her affairs or her goals. If they clash with the well-being of my kingdom, I can easily crush whatever force she sends to us from the comfort of fortified strongholds.”_  

_“Then perhaps knowledge pertaining to yourself would be more tempting. Your past, your present, your future, about the pillars and the spokes… you can have easy access to any should you choose so.”_

_“I have lived my past, I am living my present and I will eventually know my future. Face it, demon-wolf, there is nothing you can say that will change my mind.”_

_“So be it, ignorant child,”_ the wolf halted its movements, now facing him again. _“You shall walk the Din’anshiral alone, and I shall claim my promise from the one who will call herself Andruil in due time. Wear your crown of bones, arrogant king, and take it upon yourself to slay me.”_

The demon readied itself to lurch forwards with all its might.

_“Empty words from an equally empty being,”_ Solas snickered, drawing his bow once more. _“Give the Void a warm greeting for me, will you?”_

He winced. 

The cold night air of the mountains was just as real as the fading memory of lashing wind against battle-tensed arms. The past irreal bled into his present, and it felt faintly fuzzy as it settled onto his almost numb fingers. He noticed that his fingers were tightly laced onto his jawbone pendant. His past – a reminder of foolish arrogance and now irrelevant singularity, and his future – a promise that had been decided onto him.

He had climbed onto the turret’s roof to clean his head and ponder on his current state, and yet here he was, falling back to buried reveries. 

Many years had passed before he finally managed to decipher the demon’s words and its death; he slayed the wolf, he claimed his prizes, and he was showered in praise and adulation. He did not realise that he had sealed his fate by claiming hatred and resentment from the young Andruil, and the burden a jailor. Unbeknownst to him, he had assumed the demon’s mantle in a strange way: he freed the innocent wolves, though they had been looking up to their more powerful leader and were lost without it. He was now shepherd to the wolves, whoever they may have been those who sought freedom, and it was up to him to guide them out of the lingering shadows. No other role, but to recount what was lost. 

In his young arrogance he had claimed the wolf as his symbol through various means – they all meant the same, though: the lone conquest of powerful fears, and a testament to his powers. The pendant was acquired retroactively, to both remind him of his burden and to house his true identity: a foolish elf, flawed and cracked. This is the only anchor in reality that he should need, to not lose himself whole. 

He stood up, neatly straightening his tunic. The rotunda awaited another sleepless night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feladara - Elfroot  
> Isa - Hunger  
> Elgaren lasan em sou! - Spirits grant me power!  
> Falonen - friends  
> Lasas mar’lin lean, fen’daris!” - Show yourself, demonic wolf! (mot à mot translation is "Give yourself [to the] light, demonic wolf!")
> 
> Translations were done using FenxShiral's works from Project Elvhen, "An Elvhen Lexicon" and "Expanding the Elvhen Language".
> 
> So I thought that it could be plausible that the other Evanuris were called by their titles as well, and I have followed the convention of Solas's name, by assigning them names of demons. The basis is taking their most known quality and flipping it to match the demons. They all fit nicely in their archetypes, especially since there are nine Evanuris and nine main demons *X-files theme song plays in the background*. I've chosen Hunger for Andruil due to her being a goddess of hunt and survival, both being driven in part by the feeling of hunger.


	9. Downward Climb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas resumes the dreamstate meetings with his agents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a few lines of spoilers for The Masked Empire.
> 
> TW: death

 

The curved walls were dimly lit in the calming colours of the veilfire brazier next to the shoddy table and chair; they all throned lonely in the centre of the room. The rotunda would likely be transformed into a more welcoming place in the following months, but for now the only other adornments were a stack of assorted arcane tomes, blank scrolls, charcoal and a quill and its inkwell. There was also a stubby bouquet of flowers in an improvised vase, that seemed to refreshen before the previous occupants would die out; whoever had taken up this unnecessary and peculiar task was doing their job with great pride. It was odd how history repeats itself with slight changes, even when the actors knew nothing about the events that came before them. Of course, the flowers were merely decorative, but he could feel the scent of a lone herb that would help his concentration if only it was not masked by the others’.

It was well past midnight when he closed the distance towards the makeshift desk, brushing his fingers on the crude surface of the table. The long walk that he took on the battlements had managed to fade away the memories that weighted him, and gave him a clear mind. While the Inquisition was preparing the stronghold to take the place of its physical heart, there was still much to be done behind all appearances – he had to become its invisible mind, and his agents its scouring arms. It was ironic how the Left Hand was unknowingly assigned one of its own, cupping all the secrets that spilled through inexperienced fingers. His fist would remain tight, though, only trickling the necessary information.

He sat down, leaning in the chair – the squeak echoed inelegantly. The noise continued despite his best efforts to alleviate it as he tried to get more comfortable. It was hard to think of comfort and complain about the arrangements, when the alternative had been the cold ground or rough slabs for so long. Sure, he could have also made his way towards his chosen bedroom, but the trips back and forth between the bed and the rotunda would have only wasted time. He had much to work on tonight, and the sun remains hidden for no one – though Elgar’nan’s ego would once have begged to differ.

Inhaling deeply, he straightened his back with a roll of his shoulder blades, and he fluttered his lids shut with the exhaling response; his head fell gently, his chin a few breathes away from his chest.

None of his material appearance mattered anymore, as he prepared his mind to enter the Fade.

He opened his eyes again. He found himself in an empty hallway that seemed to stretch indefinitely. Giant windows lined the western wall, silver light entering the room though simple glass, and various-sized doors were waiting patiently on his right. The arched frames were stylised in familiar design, with gold trimmings, lunging towards the high ceiling. Emerald mosaic tiles were laid on the ground with no particular pattern, though the light reflected faint shapes on the angular geometry above. 

The silence was deafening, and he felt the illusion of a ring in his ears.

He clasped his wrists at the small of his back, proceeding down the hall with confident steps. The first dozen of doors were completely shrouded in darkness, some of them with no handle nor knocker, and some donning glowing locks. _Nelya, Varylwin, Serahel, Verlen…_ he started recounting the names as he passed their wooden silhouettes, increasingly growing grim as he proceeded through the list. There was no faltering in his steps and no change in the corners of his mouth, though his eyes were solemnly mourning. _Nuvaas atish’anne viras_ _Elgar’vhen’an._

The stride slowed, and he finally stopped in front of a door; the massive wood that was once as detailed and polished as the ones that passed before was now gradually decaying. He reached out, his right thumb gently brushing over the only adornment, etched crudely as if by a trembling dagger over the delicate and cleaner lines of Mythal’s tree. The splinters that dotted the edges poked at his skin – only a deception of the false, dreamed reality – and the shape of the arrow sent worrying jolts though him.

“Ir abelas,” Solas breathed softly. “Sule tael tasalal, she’el’melava falon.”

He let his arm fall, redressing his former stance. His feet were uprooted and moving by their own, his mind left behind for a fraction of a moment. The wall on his right sporadically had longer reprises devoid of any doors, but those that existed began to show light creeping beneath the carved wood. He stopped once more.

The simple handle was pushed forward, and the room behind was revealed. Soft breeze greeted his tensed muscles, and the dynamic cacophony of the marketplace cracked the painful silence he had previously found himself in. Denerim was as lively as it ever was in waking, with faceless figures bartering, laughing, shouting and almost fighting. He pushed forward, scouring the area for the only visible, complete person.

“Andaran atish’an, Rajelan,” an austere voice announced his presence. “Nuvenan ma son.”

Solas turned around to see the elvhen perched on a rooftop; the frayed edges of a parchment were squeezed in a tight fist as he prepared to jump, the fading colours resembling a map. His dense brows sat relaxed above shadowed brass eyes briefly glimmering in the daylight, and a tuft of blond fringe swayed from beneath his worn hood.  

“Enastesha,” he responded. “Do you have anything to report, Alassan?”

“Not much has changed in the main city since I have last written to you.” The elvhen turned around, as if to exemplify with the conjured image of the district. “The Alienage grows restless by day, and the queen does little to prevent the pressure that is placed on them. I fear they might not resist long enough for me to be able to recruit any of them. Otherwise – nothing on the magister here.”

Solas nodded fugitively in acknowledgement, turning around to take in the sight. His eyes quickly found a large gate, guarded by a squad of faceless templars.

“They’ve had problems with apostates,” Alassan flatly answered his unvoiced question, to which Solas hummed in low voice. “Not much I could do, unfortunately… After Redcliffe, Anora laid down the hammer even harsher on the mages around here.”

“Keep yourself out of trouble and help them if you can. Contact Huren’s company should you need reinforcements.”

“Understood, Rajelan.”

With that, he turned on his heels and walked towards the Southern alleyway. The Ferelden capital must be kept under control; the present was already altered by the return of Mir… – the Inquisitor through the time fracture, and they needed to cover all their bases in case the Tevinter abomination would try to infiltrate the already war-weakened South by all means.

He unclasped his right wrist and sinuously flicked it – the marketplace dissolved in a smoky cloud, a tall window being revealed before him. Golden turrets of floating buildings greeted him behind the glass. Pushing forward down the hall, he counted the lit doors. _Five, six, seven…_ These agents shouldn’t be disturbed, at least not now.

He stopped for a second time in front of a metal door. The angular edges formed sharp peaks, their obsidian plates overlapping each-other. This time, a knocker was present above the handle, which he ignored.

The shadows of the shoddy camp spread in irregular waves; a fire danced serenely in the middle of a circle of hooded figures, huddled up to warm their palms. Again, his host was keeping his distance from this core memory. He found the elf in question throwing bubbling vials into a crater, which expanded slightly with each explosion.

“En’an’sal’en, Dinlaselan. Getting revenge from the earth might be more efficient in waking.” Solas chuckled.

“En’an’sal’en!” the short elf responded in clunky accent, startled. “We’ve heard of Haven. I’m glad to see you again.”

Solas gave him a half-smile. “It would have been rather ironic to die in that assault. Latest reports?”

“Things are…” Dinlaselan began, raking shaky fingers through choppy chestnut hair. “The magister is growing lyrium within people. I’ve... only seen the corpses.” He shuddered, lowering his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “The others have ventured a bit further to observe their camps,” he finally continued after a long pause.

Solas frowned. “These are some concerning news. Is there anything you can tell me about the process, have you managed to find any notes?”

“Ashala saw a couple of Red Templars forcing red lyrium down a prisoner's throat, but she couldn’t find notes. If there are any... they'd have to be stored elsewhere."

The elf paused and inhaled deeply, his face contorted as if reliving painful memories.

"It must've been a terrible image to witness”, he said in low voice, barely a whisper, “she asked to be on guard duty several nights in a row. If it was anything like what I’ve seen about their remains, we’re lucky that she didn’t retch all her meals. I know I did.”

Dinlaselan gazed towards the camp, then resorted to throwing another vial into the crater. Their ghostly trails caught Solas's eye, giving him a moment to ponder the news.

“Concentrate on locating any information about their experiments.”

“We will. Vitae benefaria.”

The elf wished him out of his dream, and he would have to comply. There was nothing else of use here in any case.

For the third door, Solas didn’t need to count nor to check the designs. It was the largest and most ornate frame, gold filigree entwined with the Elvhen trimmings, the wood pale and polished. This was, however, not what signalled his end of the journey, but simply the fact that if any more doors lined the wall after this, they were completely dark and faraway into the hallway.

He entered, and a round library unfolded before him; no other exits, no windows, no indication of the time of the day. Faceless figures retreated behind heavy shelves as he proceeded forwards, towards the robed elvhen that awaited him in the centre. His garb was simple, but clean, and beneath the short mage clothing traditional Dalish footwrapping encased his calves. His dark, shoulder-length hair bounced in loose waves as he bowed his head in greeting. Although the vallaslin had been removed, Ghilan’nain’s delicate halla horns had remained imprinted in grisly scars.

“Garion! I trust the court treats you well, yes?" Solas asked without preamble, the other elf’s smile drawing faint lines around his dark eyes.

“As they would for any of our kind. It’s highly useful, not that you wouldn’t know.”

“I do miss the court intrigue… The Inquisition is not one for subtle noble society manipulation.”

“And there is nothing more I would like to see than the famed Dread Wolf overthrow these childish Orlesians,” the elvhen grinned.

Solas walked slowly along the shelves, investigating the books.

“Have you managed to break through her inner circle?” he asked flatly.

He could hear the soft sound of Garion fumbling with his clothes. 

“It…”, the elvhen began carefully, “… is not as easy as I had anticipated. Our previous attempts have left us crippled. She is weary.”

Solas closed his eyes firmly. He was, of course, talking about Felassan. He had hoped that he had waited enough to send another agent after the Eluvian Network. It seems like there were yet again more obstacles than he thought.

“I have lived among them, Rajelan”, Garion finally broke the silence that had settled over them. “I… had been just as angry with Felassan, but I am beginning to understand him. There is much more that we could do if we all worked together.”

He gently closed a book that he had grabbed off the shelf, prolonging the moment to gather his thoughts and his arms alike behind him. He turned on his heels, approaching Garion and straightening his back as he proceeded; he pinned him down with his gaze. His breath was calm and calculated, yet the storm in his eyes was dark and stern. The other elvhen was having trouble in sustaining this contact, sporadically looking towards his left cheekbone.

This was Garion’s dream, and he was undoubtedly feeling cornered; ephemeral versions of Solas broke from himself, menacingly tracing a tight circle around them – all created by the dreamer’s mind. His breath stalled.

“Tell me again, Garion, where your allegiance stands,” low voice escaped expressionless lips. “Are you prepared to dance on countless graves of your own people, just to momentarily save those who would mock us relentlessly when all we tried to do was help them?”

The elvhen winced; they were close enough that Solas could feel his short exhales.

“What will you do, Gelem’halla’amelan? You stood with me when your brothers and sisters fell before their leader who preached benevolence, sapping blood through their vallaslin. You stood with me as Ghilan’nain used the life of her former devoted elite to simply replenish Andruil’s wine barrels, which she spilled at our feet in quick rivers. Tell me, Garion, who shall it be, who shall inherit this land if not our people who have suffered through wars so bloody that Briala will never even come close to imagine?”

There was no answer, just a harsh gulp.

“Don’t play the shepherd to these people. You have no idea what you tie yourself to,” Solas finally concluded, and retreated from the elf. In the periphery of his eyes, he saw Garion’s tense stance loosen slightly; he gave him a moment of respite.

“The magister doesn’t just want to cause unrest in Orlais and Ferelden… but what he is actually after is the Network,” he continued in low voice. “If it is only for transport or it it is for a much more sinister purpose, I do not know. What is certain is that we must not let him bring the taint into it.”

Since the paradox at Redcliffe, the information had continuously flashed in his mind, stored somewhere behind the well-being of the Inquisition. All empires fall in due time; Celene could very well be assassinated and someone else could be placed on the throne and would make no difference to their people. That person could be Corypheus’s puppet, one that was decided by their people, or someone chosen by the Inquisitor – in the end, that would do little damage in the timeline that Alexius had graciously revealed to them. Red lyrium growing inside people, Blight and decay, corrupted dragons – it was deeply concerning what the magister set in motion and where these actions would take the world to. Would its Pillars crumble?

There were many reasons for which Solas wanted to regain control of the Eluvians, but what truly broke the nation was the magister's the acquisition of the Network… and its inevitable corruption.

“We are on borrowed time. Do not disappoint me… falon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nuvaas atish’anne viras Elgar’vhen’an. - May you peacefully roam the Fade.  
> Ir abelas. - I’m sorry.  
> Sule tael tasalal, she’el’melava falon. - Until we meet again, old friend.  
> Andaran atish’an, Rajelan. - Enter this place in peace, Commander.  
> Nuvenan ma son. - I hope you are well.  
> Enastesha. - Graced.  
> En’an’sal’en, Dinlaselan. - Blessings, Dinlaselan.  
> Dinlaselan - one who is defiant  
> Vitae benefaria. - a respectful goodbye in Tevene  
> Gelem’halla’amelan - Halla Knight (lit. feared halla keeper)
> 
> Translations were done using FenxShiral's works from Project Elvhen, "An Elvhen Lexicon" and "Expanding the Elvhen Language", plus the "Book of Names" for Dinlaselan. 
> 
> I... may have gone slightly overboard with the formalities.


	10. Withershins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas resumes his painting habits, in waking and dreaming state.

He had decided that, where his important deeds once decorated the walls of the rotunda, it was time for Mirwen’s actions to be recorded for posterity. Finally coming to terms with their residence in Skyhold, he deemed it necessary for the stronghold to _feel_ like it belonged to her. Gift upon gift, the murals would be the third in this chaplet. Two would be helping him as well: embracing his ancient magic was reassuring and serene, whereas painting helped him keep a clear mind – especially now that he was placing a darker colour over sienna, preserving the clean, already-established angle. The gift that came in-between had only been for her.

As he awoke from another meeting with his agents a couple of nights ago, he had concluded that there would be no way he could manage to fall asleep with the knowledge of the new reports. There were still too many loose threads that he could not place together, and too little time to decipher and choose the right string of future. Instead, he chose to walk towards the garden to let his thoughts settle. His mind had a different plan, however, as he began to note the bizarre absence of anything Dalish in the main hall décor: the room was beginning to resemble a Chantry, with more wooden carvings of Andraste appearing day by day. He remembered frowning at the sight – this was supposed to be the Inquisition’s stronghold, sure, but it should have also reflected the Inquisitor. Although he was happy he didn’t have to walk among statues of Sylaise and Mythal, or stare down mounted varterrals, bears or whatever the Dalish associated with her chosen Dirthamen, it was peculiar to not see her mark.

For this reason, he had sketched the Dalish mask symbol on a parchment, and a drapery design to go with it. He had managed to introduce some Elvhen elements, by encasing the banner in a detailed, filigreed trim, and by making the drapery trees resemble the ones that he remembered near Vir Dirthara in ancient times.

“ _Commission the tailor to have these beaten in gold,”_ he had told an agent, Dalish herself, while tracing the areas in question with a gentle finger.

Preserved and unaltered, the trees mere patterns in golden tread for a people who were given no chance to witness them.

“ _I’m not sure we have the means, Messere,”_ the archivist bounced up from the couch, approaching them to better see the sketches. “ _Lady Josephine already budgeted for the décor and there is no room for other expenses.”_

 _“I am sure you can see the dichotomy between our Inquisitor’s own faith and the statues in the main hall. Heraldry and drapes should be a good compromise to allow her,”_ Solas countered.

The archivist scratched his beard, considering their options; his eyes never left the parchment.

_“I suppose there is a case to be made for that, yes…”_

_“Let the Ambassador know that this is from and for the Dalish, as it will be made with their help._ ”

The man looked back at Solas as if broken from a trance and agreed with a low hum.

 _“What should I tell the Lady Inquisitor when the shipment arrives?”_ the elf asked him when the door towards the main hall finally closed.

And he hoped the trees had survived the crashing rubble that sundered the Vir Dirthara, bolstered by the meagre offering he made towards the new world.

Solas smiled wistfully. _“You heard me. It is from the Dalish.”_

 _This defeats its purpose. I need to concentrate more on painting_ , he chastised himself, shaking off the memories.

***

He had envisioned the rotunda’s space, its walls now completely wrapped in plaster. He was thankful that he had been left behind for the past venture into the wilds – although he missed the fresh air of the forest, the famine for neatly arranged thoughts conquered any other needs. Besides, he welcomed this separation from Mirwen, as he didn’t wish for any more distractions from his true mission. 

 _Destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, formation of the Inquisition, the alliance with the mages, destruction of Haven…_ , he began mapping the events with scrutinising eye. There were already four events to draw, and it was the perfect opportunity to design a story that flowed naturally from chapter to chapter. All the discussions he has had with Varric left him inspired to create, and his iambic answers to the dwarf were beginning to be insufficient. It may have been a waste of both the Fade’s abilities and a night’s worth of dreams, but he felt he earned one selfish moment of reveries.

With his left hand resting on his chin, he began tracing lines on the wall with his right. Tan lines appeared on the plaster, completing the geometry started by the existing painting; he was particularly satisfied by the second event, and considered drawing wolves to signal the rebirth of the order – just a subtle brazen touch of his involvement, though it wasn’t quite as indirect for anyone who knew him. He resolved by interpreting it as the Inquisitor’s pack of advisors.

The sudden opening of the door startled him, and he misaligned the curve of the Haven’s skyline behind the magister’s silhouette. He frowned; _This was not supposed to happen._ He had made sure to conjure the stronghold devoid of any occupants but himself.

He was even more surprised to see Mirwen emerging from the small hallway leading from the main hall. Without a care in the world or any sign of realisation that she had intruded into his dream, she was simply admiring all the changes that had occurred to the tower in the past days. _Does she know she is Dreamwalking?_

“You ought to catch more sunlight, Solas. This tower doesn’t suit you, even though you are decorating it well,” Mirwen said, walking towards the desk. “You’ve worked very fast on these murals.”

“Have you been spying me, Inquisitor? I was unaware you visited the tower often,” he said, turning to face the murals once again to feign concentration.

“Has my absence been noted?” she said, with her subtle coquettish lilt. “All you needed was to ask.”

She paused, running her fingers over the ocularum shard and making it hum in return.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Mirwen continued in low voice. “We haven’t had much time for discussions lately.”

“It is understandable. You have new responsibilities, Inquisitor.”

She sighted upon hearing the title.

“Please, Solas, you don’t need to be so formal. I need at least someone to call me by my name.”

 _The burden of the leader_ , he noted sorrowfully; he knew the pain all too well, though he couldn’t tell if he started using it as a well-earned acknowledgement of her actions, or merely to take an impersonal stance towards her.

“Very well… Mirwen. What can I do for you?”

“I trust you enjoy the flowers,” she replied, avoiding the question.

“You have sent me… flowers?”

“You must be missing nature just like I do. I was missing our time in Haven,” she said softly. “I was hoping you could share more of your stories… I would like to know you better.”

His features softened, feeling warmth in his chest; Solas finally understood what happened. He felt joyous and charmed, but above all he felt like laughing – maybe it was the Anchor that connected them, maybe it was a sick play of the Fade towards his forbidden feelings, but certainty resided in the fact that she had thought of him longingly enough to find herself lost in his dream.

“You continue to surprise me,” he said in gentle tone, curbing the smile that desperately yearned to be seen. “Let us talk… preferably somewhere more interesting than this.”

The surroundings dissolved in mellow waves, imperceptible to anyone but the dreamer; the staccato in Mirwen’s moves signalled a reassurance that this change would not be noted by the intruder. The delicate and unhurried angling of her head left evaporating trails over the rotunda fragments, and a slow gleam adorned her cheeks and eyes once again – one that was certain to haunt him to his grave.

He chose Haven as their new backdrop. It was a time before her assignment as a leader, when things were slightly simpler, and, in truth, he had missed it as well – careless flirting, magical training in the snow, long debates over history, religion and tradition. Although they wouldn’t see eye to eye, their discussions helped him better understand the Dalish, and there was fire in their tongues and sparks in their eyes – it made him Solas again, the nobody who only wished to learn and argue and whose responsibilities concerned no one but himself.

Time resumed for both, and they were dressed in their gear as they would in the memory he chose. He doubted she would remember this random return from the Hinterlands after the diplomatic mission of recruiting horsemaster Dennet.

“A story, you’ve requested? There is one that involves you, for which you had not been conscious to remember now,” he began, proceeding through the narrow alleys. “I sat beside you while you slept, studying the Anchor.”

“It’s reassuring to know that at least someone tried to make sense of this mark. I can't imagine it taking too long for the Fade expert,” she answered playfully.

Solas chuckled. “It took longer than you might think. It is unique, and nothing I had found in the Fade had helped me. The ties to the Veil were as elusive as they appeared at first glance. Cassandra threatened to execute me as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

“Wouldn’t I know that. Cassandra’s like that with everyone.”

He gave Mirwen an understanding smirk. They proceeded towards a vantage point, where the Breach was visible, throning over murky skies, an image far too familiar for the both of them.

“You were never to wake up. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was unable to aid you, to solve this mystery, and the spirits were of no help. It seemed like all the assistance I might have been able to give had come to an end.”

“Were you thinking of leaving? Where? Wouldn’t the Breach have threatened the whole world?”

“That is the question… anywhere I could have researched a way to repair the Breach before it reached me. I suppose it was yet another poor plan.”

Mirwen looked at him with grateful eyes and seemed to stop herself from interjecting.

“I unsuccessfully attempted once more, watching the Rifts expand and grow while I stood powerless before them. They were meant to swallow the world whole, no force to match them… but it seems you hold the key to our salvation.” He paused, solemn and admirative. “You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then, I felt the whole world change.”

“Felt the whole world… change?” Mirwen asked, unsure. He almost missed the glint in her eyes upon hearing his words.

Solas smiled, softly and sorrowfully. “A figure of speech.”

“I’m aware of the metaphor, I’m more interested in the word ‘felt’.”

There could have been a moment to gather his thoughts and weigh his alternatives, but he lacked the urgency that he had in waking. Against his better judgement and in the perilous comfort of his own dream, he blurted: “You change… everything.”

“Sweet talker.”

He turned away to look towards the Breach, thankful that he could end the conversation before he would threaten himself even further. But he knew her – this was just like any other flirting moment they had shared in Haven: playful, careless, which would die in the air between them before it would be taken any further. _There is Cullen, Dorian, that Dalish scout_ , he recalled with a jealous tinge, knowing that they had caught her eye at some point or another, though hopeful that they would give her what he never could.

He felt fingers tugging at his jaw, and he turned around incredulous. The chastisement drowned on Mirwen’s gentle lips, that departed from him way too soon to fully comprehend. She turned around and seemed to try to leave the moment behind. Solas chuckled, shaking his head – there was no way he’d let this go.

He lost himself, pulling her back into the kiss. His mind went blank, and the only thing he knew was the need for more. He grazed his lips over hers, clashing them when it hadn’t been enough. Softly, or impatiently?, biting down – not enough. He glided his tongue over her pillowy lips, urging them to remain open as it crashed its width upon hers. Cool air brushed the tips while he hungrily changed their angle in another famished gulp. She let herself be guided by his arms, falling back and giving way to his knee between her thighs – not enough. He drank her scent and sank his fingers along her hips, pulling her closer. Serpentine, moving along her back to catch a fistful of soft hair - a dazed gasp, as his touch brushed at the nape of her neck; a low growl at her rising chest's caress on his tensed torso. Cold on warmth, rough texture of their tongues, pressure building at the base of his spine, his arousal an unspoken confession – _Never enough_.

He stopped, retreating to take her in all her glory, her eyes opening in a haze, and he kissed her again – this time with all his shame and pain. _It isn’t right, nothing is!_

“We shouldn’t, not even here,” he finally managed to mutter in broken voice. And, just like that, the trance was over.

“Here? What do you mean?”

“Where do you think we are?”

His confirmation – he still wasn’t sure if she was indeed a l’ve’an’virelan, but what was certain was that she had no idea that this was all a dream. _Maybe it is for the best_. _It should remain here._

“This isn’t real…” the realisation finally dawned on her.

“That is a matter of debate… probably best discussed after you... _Wake up_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L’ve’an’virelan - dreamer, Fade Walker
> 
> As always, from FenxShiral's "An Elvhen Lexicon".


	11. Diligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas tries to break off the mistake he's made in his dream, and in which he meets a very grating fellow.

He channelled the loose ambient magic, grabbing the now-green vapours in a tight orb and pushing it towards the targets. Mirwen’s fireball hit the bandit immediately after and she threw him a mouthed ‘ _Thanks_ ’. An explosion of colours from all their combined magic danced on the cave’s walls.

It was hard to concentrate now, knowing that she truly reciprocated his feelings. He had been called to accompany her on a mission to the Storm Coast and they never got to discuss what had transposed between them. Maybe it was for the best, maybe she thought it was only a meaningless dream of hers – it might be wiser to let her think so. Was there a need for more deception, though? He could reject her now and end this whole conundrum before it got even more out of hand. It would be tough to convince her, sure, after that whole embarrassing display of his, but it was needed... kinder, even, in the long run. He traced the lines of Dirthamen’s vallaslin as she gave him another fugitive look over the shoulder, desperately trying to etch the design in his mind. He cast another spell mechanically. _Let these be my chains_ , his internal voice echoed over the battle noise, as his eyes followed the flight of the Betrayed’s raven south, towards her lips…

“Fasta vass, Solas…!” Dorian’s exasperation broke his trail. “If you can’t handle casting Immolate could you perhaps consider using something less likely to set yourself and others around you on fire?!” The mage punctuated by angrily extinguishing Solas’s coattails with the obsidian blade of his staff, casting his own broken Energy Barrage in-between pats.

“It would’ve gone out by itself eventually,” he muttered under his breath. Just what he needed: to act like a fool and be scolded on magic by a Tevinter using Elvhen techniques.

They had been preparing to challenge the Hessarian leader, but truthfully everyone was tired. He could see it in their eyes and their sloppy fighting. Journeying even for a few hours in the torrential rain had taken a toll on each of them; he briefly remembered the feeling of soaked hair clinging to his face and he brushed an invisible strand off his cheeks. His ears were ringing from the wind.

“Found anything useful, Boss?” Iron Bull asked, circling the dead group of bandits that Mirwen was now looting.

“Coins,” she answered, showing him the heavy leather pouch. “It’s not stealing if they stole it first!”

Solas involuntarily glanced towards the Qunari and the Tevinter, redressing himself before they could notice.

“Maybe we could stay here for a while. Warm up, dry our clothes…” she continued, looking towards the entrance. The sun was well past the zenith, though the storm made it impossible to say exactly how close they were to dusk.

“What good is that going to do, we’ll get soaked the moment we’ll walk out of this cave,” Dorian whined. “We have all the materials needed for the amulet, do we not? Let’s just challenge the Hessarian and be done with this place.”

Mirwen hummed. “We still need Serpentstone. You’re free to look for some, but I’m not leaving before I get rid of this headache.”

Dorian quickly turned on his heels gesturing a goodbye with a flick of his wrist. Iron Bull proceeded after him.

“Don’t go,” Mirwen said with a soft voice, tugging at Solas’s coat as he was about to walk outside of the cave – not to leave her alone, just to not leave himself alone with her.

He paused for a moment, pondering his options, before walking towards an open space and he cast a large fire glyph on the stone. _A properly cast fire glyph_ , he smugly corrected himself. He inhaled deeply, her steps resounding from behind him. _You know what you must do. Focus!_

Mirwen sat down at the edge of the glyph, combing through her hair with her fingers – the warmth wasn’t quite as potent as a campfire’s would be, but they would have to make do.

They sat in silence, the mesmerising air waves around the arcane symbols on the ground; he thanked the incessant drips at the exit of the cave for providing some kind of noise.

“I had a dream…” she started carefully, letting her damp hair fall over her shoulder, “… and I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

“A good dream, I hope?” he found himself asking, knowing exactly what he hoped she would reveal it to be.

Mirwen chuckled. “Depends on how it concludes.” She tried to sound confident and playful, yet her fumbling with the coat gathered in her lap betrayed insecurity. “Back when I was with my clan in the Free Marches, I met a half-elf apostate that was trying to leave for the Tevinter Imperium. Feynriel was his name.”

_The L’ve’an’virelan that travels with Dinlaselan_ , Solas noted absently.

“He stayed with us for a while. We gave him shelter. He was a bit weird, he was affected by nightmares and he was sleep deprived by the time he got to us. We didn’t know what to do, so we surrounded his bedroll with dried bundles of some of those herbs I had arranged to be sent to you. I forget their name – Keeper Deshanna is better with plants. I only know it by scent and its leaves.”

Solas continued watching her silently, unsure of this story. He refrained from interjecting with the herb’s name.

“I soon found out that he was a Dreamer. I couldn’t believe it, we thought they had been extinct! And he was an apostate; I wonder if that is how they disappeared, how many had been killed or hunted by the shem Templars?”

She paused, inhaling deeply.

“Do you know how he showed me those powers? We shared a dream, one of his memories. He showed me the Alienage in Kirkwall, and how the Champion helped him escape the Templars. It was brief. He didn’t want to attract demons onto me. I’ve dreamed before, Solas, like any other mage does. I know what a Dreamer’s presence is like, even if you had to confirm it for me in the end.”

She raised her eyes to meet his, with a smile as if this was a game of chess and she just cornered his King. Though, he supposed she did, all things considered – he would have been perfectly content with avoiding this discussion if she showed no signs of understanding what happened. He chuckled.

“When I asked you if we could talk I expected conversation… not tongue,” Mirwen continued.

“I did no such thing!” he tried to counter, suppressing a smirk.

Solas raked his fingers onto the back of his head.

“It has been a long time… Things have always been easier for me in the Fade.”

“So, what happens now? Where does that take us?” she asked, leaning towards him.

_To being lovers? If you would have me_.

The thought almost scarred his mind. How laughable: the mighty Fen’Harel, the famous leader who could have had it all at a snap of his fingers, lusted after by a fellow leader among many, and, above all, seasoned tactician who took great pride in all his conquests and thinking… was now reduced to begging his conscience to bend. _Never kneel, never surrender_ , he repeated his mantra from his days as a general, as if it would help his current situation.

“I am not certain this would be the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

“What could possibly be more trouble than what we face now?” she laughed. Her naivety was dangerously soothing, and he almost wanted to lean forward to close the gap. To tangle his fingers through her still-damp hair and cup her softly angled jaw. Tell her that her worries will all end once they defeat the blighted magister. That they would lose themselves in ancient ruins, that she could see through his memories all that was good in Elvhenan, all that he wished he could promise her. Tell her everything. “I am willing to take that risk.”

Solas breathed deeply. _End it now. Clean, no pain for her. Cullen, Dorian, that Dalish scout, …Feynriel. She deserves someone who will not be selfish._

“If I could take a little more time to think. There are…” he answered quickly against his better judgement, “… considerations!” The blurted word was an underestimation of its true scope, and as such its cadence came to be unnatural and broken. _And the Dalish fear the Dread Wolf_ …

Mirwen gave him a warm, understanding smile.

“Speaking of the Champion of Kirkwall… I’ve met Aidan Hawke. He’s charming, though not quite as charming as someone else I know,” she said playfully. “I think you’d like him.”

“I am sure he will be a pleasure.”

***

Solas shouldn’t have been so sure. The man was somehow simultaneously hidden and in everyone’s way. He moved with fluidity, confidence and charisma; a pickpocket’s fingers never truly rested, and it was clear that he knew what everyone in his radius carried upon their person. Some knew him, but most didn’t, and he seemed to relish in their ignorance. Solas heard way too many comments on Aidan Hawke’s “sun-kissed tousled hair”, “devilish beard” and “dimpled smile”, and if he heard one more giggle about his “impossibly light eyes” from the mages upstairs he would throw away all his self-control, neatly bundled in the form of a tome straight in their direction.

He met the man. He was nothing special save for his attitude that was paradoxically both carefree and arrogant, and his achievements that would somehow cast a painful inhibition on the conversation.

_“And this is the not-Circle of Magi”_ , Varric had guided Aidan through the rotunda with a grand, open-armed spin on his heels.

_“So, this is the tower where the rebel mages ended up living in? Fascinating. And-… Blondie would have been so happy to see this.”_

The man was impossible to read. Solas relied on stoic sentences and austere expressions, yet Hawke managed to keep a cool and indecipherable face through any phrase he voiced. He was simply grating, and dreadful would be the days he would tag along with their Inquisitorial party.

“I heard you gave the Southern Divine quite the ideas, Hawke. Ever thought about going back to Kirkwall now that Justinia is dead?”

“And give up the life as a fugitive? Perish the thought. Besides, duty calls again.”

Solas had hoped that of all the places Aidan could have sucked all the air out of, he wouldn’t have chosen the rotunda. He looked like the type to spend more time getting drunk rather than admire paintings being brought into creation, yet there he was, sprawled on his chair, feet up on the desk with no regards to the important sketches sitting dangerously close to his boots. Dorian had descended from his alcove in the library above to keep the man talking - seeing how more than just unhappy this made Solas, unknowing that it would take more than this to break the calmness that painting induced him.

“I’ve read Varric’s book, you went through some fascinating experiences. Your ascension back to nobility was impressive considering the circumstances of half of Ferelden fleeing to the Free Marches.”

Aidan laughed. “Kill the right people, find the right ancient relic and you might just gain status from the Viscount. Not unlike the Tevinter Imperium, I’ve been told.”

Solas expected to hear some kind of anger from Dorian, as per their usual arguments. He only heard clear laughter in response.

“For that, you may find that you lack the certain magical abilities to do so,” he added. “Although with your friends, you might just barely make-do.”

“You’ll find them to be an interesting bunch, though I warn you not to find one of them _too_ interesting. It would be hard enough to convince him not to add you to his list of slain Venatori. Showing too much interest in his… abilities would be a whole ‘nother story.”

“You have shown great support towards mages. Your friends couldn’t possibly still follow you if they didn’t share your views that not all of us are inherently evil.”

Aidan chuckled and seemed to shift in the chair. “Yes, how gracious of me.”

“You kept that apostate alive, right? I’m sure that was a divisive decision.”

Aidan hummed, and left a long pause linger. “The Maker will judge us all in different ways.”

“So you would rather place your conscience onto a religious being?!” Solas finally snapped, turning to face the men; he would have to remedy the poor blend of colours that resulted from this action. “Your mage friend was right in his actions, however you would let your city rot in unrest for years rather than take responsibility for your actions?”

“I’d rather not be strong-armed into making decisions,” Hawke retorted with a snarl, halting the absent turning of the dagger in his hand. “You weren’t there. By the time the whole shitshow with the mages and the Templars finally boiled over it all went downhill! Six years I had been doing all I could to stop Kirkwall from imploding, and for what?! It never mattered in the end,” he concluded, throwing the dagger on the desk.

Silence washed between them; the noise upstairs seemed too far away.

“I’ll tell you what,” Aidan finally broke his stillness. “You’re a good man, Solas, but you’re naïve to think that going out of your way to do what you think is the right thing will turn out well. There’s always going to be something bigger waiting to screw you over. An Exalted March, a madman with an army suffering from hypocrisy, a Blight, a friend turned into an abomination… why bother?”

_Because I’d rather die trying than selfishly stand on the side-lines._  

“But you did spare the apostate, or am I recalling the events wrong?” Dorian interjected.

“Yeah, I did, damn it all!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L’ve’an’virelan - Dreamer/ Fade Walker  
> Fasta vass - Tevene swear, no translation as of now
> 
> Alternately, The one in which Solas discovers that people other than himself can have resting-bitch faces. 
> 
> I've been going back and forth on which Hawke I should introduce, and I finally settled on this Chaotic Neutral type, just so I could have the maximum amount of DA2 companions available for possible future interactions.


	12. On Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas puts his ancient elf manipulations to good use, and DA3 meets DA2.

With closed eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

The chair was comfortable enough as far as the ghost of sensation goes on his shifting limbs, but it came equally coupled with the uncomfortable stifling of pacing around the table. He thought better while in motion, though his fellow Dreamers would undoubtly be unappreciative of his stalking.

“Briala has been happy with the information I have gathered at the Winter Palace, but still not enough to trust me,” Garion continued his report. “Celene is growing tired of our army’s harass and is thinking about striking an alliance with Briala.”

“Gaspard is also making some curious arrangements,” a fidgety elvhen took over the attention, darting her bright eyes between the four men lined across the table before finally settling on Solas. _Sharanni, stationed at the De Chalons Estate._ “One set of correspondence goes East, towards Ferelden, no change of hands, and another moves towards Verchiel, then Montsimmard, and then we lose track of it somewhere between Mont-de-Glace and Val Firmin.”

“Didn’t he fight against the Fereldan Rebellion? Why would he send letters to Ferelden?!”

Sharanni grinned at the silver-haired elf. “Mercenaries. Some Chevaliers are being trained on stealth too.”

“Could this be enough to gain Briala’s trust?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Taren. How likely would it be that I would know Gaspard’s plans?”

Taren leaned into his chair, contemplative. “I suppose you’re right. We need to find a way.”

_We need to find a way_ , Solas’s inner voice repeated flatly. Underground army – City and Dalish elves alike, aspirations of governmental position, aggressive tactics employed. He didn’t have many clues to go off of, but his gut feeling told him that he had just enough corner pieces to triangulate. One more point, one more hint and the interpolation would be complete. But what could it be? Celene is out of question and an appeal to Felassan’s memory is equally as unadvisable. The threat of Corypheus? She could thrive in the chaos – she was employing anarchistic ploys, he doubted she wouldn’t know how to use the gilded staircase this imminent war provided.

Felassan’s last words were that she reminded him of Solas. _Solas, or the Dread Wolf?_ The difference was important; the Dread Wolf is relentless, focused and unyielding. Solas, on the other hand, is flawed: ridden with guilt, bound by compassion, with a constant need to prove himself in any way, buried at the back of his mind. What would be his downfall – _what is my downfall?_

“Send Dithra’s company as spies, maybe?”

“Dithra’s not with us. I’ve been trying to get Briala’s recruiters to stumble upon them, but they keep having the worst luck at timing.”

To some degree, that would materialise as the loss of the People, but there was no way he would have the heart to endanger thousands of elves in this cruel way. Truly, he was at a loss.

_Loss_.

“ _O Falon’Din. Lethanavir. Friend to the Dead. Guide my feet, calm my soul. Lead me to my rest._ ” Gentle words were laid in a careful sheet over the dead elf; ceremonial fingers closed her eyelids.

_“What are you doing?”_

_“What does it look like I’m doing?”_

The hiss that escaped her lips was devastatingly antithetic to the soft, chanting voice that she had used for the prayer. His question hadn’t been serious – of course he knew what she was doing, the question was why it was needed. Why, of all the Elvhen, had it been Falon’Din that endured through the ages as a “friend to the dead” when he would not let their bones to rest and their spilled blood to seep through the land.

_“They are long gone. Empty words did not help them in life, and they will not help them in death.”_

_“It’s not just for the dead, Solas,”_ Mirwen angrily answered, dusting her coat as she stood up. _“Look at them,”_ she continued by pointing at the small group of praying elves at the end of the path. _“Tell me what you see.”_

Solas pondered for a few moments; various equipment, mostly hunters, but there was a young mage and one warrior. Most donned Mythal and June’s vallaslin, and some didn’t have any. He gripped his staff and leaned into it slightly – what could possibly be so noteworthy of this group? He had seen enough elves pray for several lifetimes, except these were even doing it wrong. If they wanted Falon’Din to be pleased, they would need to do a blood sacrifice and pepper more praises to his power, looks and intellect in-between.

_“It’s a group of pious elves, praying for the dead,_ ” he finally replied flatly, and felt ash in his mouth remembering the almost-spilling golden chalice in Falon’Din’s favourite temple.

Mirwen chuckled. _“It’s a group of Dalish and City elves praying. How many times have you seen City elves praying to Falon’Din under open sky?”_

Solas looked away, clicking his tongue over his teeth. There were certain gaps in his knowledge that he wasn’t prepared to admit.

_“The prayer is also for those left behind. It brings us together to mourn and remember those who gave their lives so we could be here, to fight for a better life,”_ she began her explanation, with a slight proud gleam in her eyes. _“We don’t share ground with people that are not Dalish, but this war brought us closer. I personally heard at least one of those City elves crying for the Maker during the fight a week ago. The Creators don’t just guide us, they bind us in life and death. We reclaim our history and culture through this.”_

Solas wanted to argue, but the words were lost in his throat. Instead, he tapped the woven grip with arrhythmic cadence. Walking through the memory, though, he brushed her hair off her forehead, letting the soft waves fall slowly on his hand. So tenacious, so effervescent. She knew how to appeal to his logical side without explaining the ritualistic aspects of their religion. He hadn’t always taken well to being shown his lacking knowledge, but he relished in the moments she proved him wrong or simply taught him something new.

“…elan?” Garion said wearily, his unusually loud tone indicating a repetition of the word.

She did raise an interesting point, though, one that he hadn’t quite considered. His judgement had long been clouded by the wish to free them of the lasting chains that the Evanuris had created, that he never stopped to consider the ramifications that they had on society.

“Solas?” Taren asked softly. “What should our next course of action be?”

Solas leaned forward, propping his mouth on the fist he’d formed over the table. His downfall. How stupid of him – one welcoming hand, one powerful mind, one warm smile and he had been ensnared. All the moments he had been invited to the tavern for drinks, all the Diamondback games he’d played – this had to be the fourth point: lack of acceptance. With each cycle of the sun, she would become less like Briala and more like the symbol for her rebellion. 

“Pray to Dirthamen to reveal her enemies’ secrets,” he began, and he could see the elves sharing confused and worried looks. “Pray to Ghilan’nain to guide Dithra’s company to you,” he paused, giving Garion a moment to regain his composure; his eyes had been squeezed shut. “But don’t do it alone. You must find a way to invite Briala to join you, as well as many others.” 

***

“You are troubled, lethallin.”

The familiar touch of the spirit of Wisdom engulfed his dreamstate being, soothing old wounds and new that he didn’t even know he had. The issue at hand did not require any compassion, but rather rational guidance. His mind knew what was needed of him, yet his heart was always one step ahead, elusively escaping the claws of logic.

“I had a meeting with my agents. We were supposed to find a way to recover the Eluvian network… yet my mind briefly drifted to things it should not have,” Solas finally answered with furrowed brows. “Mistakes are being made with increased frequency.”

His incessant pacing along the crested line of the mountains was closely observed by the spirit; there was nothingness below and pressure above in this imagined land.

“Have your priorities changed?”

“That is what troubles me. If that is true, time cannot accept any more deviations from its true course.”

What a peculiar concept. There had been an age when the only certainty he had was ‘time’. Urgency was a construct that came from the feeling of anxiety, and freezing moments had no meaning to him. There was still a swiftness in cutting words, as the Arlathanian Game relied on toying with concepts, and the thread of time was its most important, though he supposed he counted it as an invisible player as well, one they all taunted and raced. He still could savour sweet moments, which was something that he found he was unable to do now – this quick world for which he had been an architect awoke an impulsivity in him, grasping for more and all of it to be given to him in one instance. Thus, ‘time’ seemed as foreign to him as the shadows of Elvhen found him now. Today, he could only scramble to find more.

“You must accept this part of you, or else it will only hurt you,” Wisdom gently whispered the unexpected words; any part of him that he must embrace is the Dread Wolf in all its manifestations, to leave his love behind and never look back. 

Solas sighted and faced the spirit with tired eyes. His usual composed pose felt sagging, weighted down by all his failed plans.

“That is not relevant to my mission nor my distraction,” he finally answered, after a pause that seemed to last an eternity.

***

It was sundown when they had finally managed to reach the shoddy camp. Three figures were tending to a cheery fire, though one of the men got up and left at the sight of their group; the bright blue markings on his skin glistened fleetingly in the light. _An elf?_ _That is an odd vallaslin_ , Solas noted, attempting to recognise the design. 

“Welcome to the Hawke Estate. Make yourself comfortable, don’t be shy, there are many rocks to choose from,” Aidan threw the words over his shoulder and the bag off his shoulder on the ground. “Meet Merrill and Anders. That’s Fenris over there,” he quickly introduced his people, pointing towards each of them as the names poured into the conversation. “Meet the Inquisitor Mirwen, Blackwall and Solas. I think you remember the cheeky dwarf behind.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Mirwen replied with a short nod.

“Varric! Hawke, you managed to find Varric!” Merrill quickly pushed through their group, locking her arms around the dwarf.

“Don’t we always find each other in times like these, Daisy? You can take the dwarf out of Orzammar, but you can’t take this dwarf out of the middle of danger.”

“More like he found me, but it would’ve spoiled the surprise if I told you beforehand. What’s his deal?” Aidan asked, looking towards the departed man. Was there a tinge of remorse in his eyes?

“You leave one morning without saying a word and you think he is going to greet you with open arms when you return?” Anders replied with a tired voice, clutching a thick cloak. The man looked rough, the unkempt beard and dishevelled hair was bizarrely antithetic to Merrill’s bright appearance. 

Hawke grumbled a low _‘I know’_ , accompanied by a string of indecipherable words, and made his way towards the separated elf.

The inquisitorial group awkwardly made themselves useful, and Solas volunteered together with Blackwall to set up the couple of tents they had brought. It was a menial task – the perfect excuse to observe without having to do small talk. The Warden seemed to share his views, as they proceeded the assemble in silence. Solas glanced quickly towards Hawke, who gently threw his arm around Fenris’s shoulders. 

“So, what is the plan now?”

“The plan is for you to keep Justice down for one night!” Merrill meant to joke, though contempt seeped through. 

_Justice? Did he bind a spirit?_  

“Aidan has a Warden contact in Crestwood that we will meet with, but I would like to clear the area first, to make it safer for travel. There’s a fort that I’m hoping to take for the Inquisition, you’re welcome to join us,” Mirwen answered, sounding as if she was pushing some embers to punctuate her words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rajelan - Commander
> 
> This is the fourth dialogue-heavy chapter in a row, ikr, I don't know how this happened either lmao
> 
> A few notes on Mirwen... I've decided to emphasise a bit more on her previous role as a First and make her a bit more calculated in the sense that she could have learned how to deal with different kinds of people from Deshanna and thus she would have more of a mediating approach to how she deals with ~~the heretic~~ Solas and his anti-Creators views.


	13. Pariah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas observes their new companions and is reminded of some less pleasant memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: hunting, mentions of blood

 

He glanced towards Varric and nodded at the hand movement the dwarf made: a touch on the temple, silently pointing forwards right after. He watched him aim the crossbow carefully, avoiding to rustle the leaves that concealed his frame. _Three, two_ – the bolt rippled through the air – _one_ – and, with a quick snap of his wrists and weaving fingers, it was engulfed in ice as it breached the ram’s skin. This wasn’t the first time Solas had done the trick; he knew that the magic reached the tip right before it struck the animal’s heart.

“Hero, do you want to do the honours and bring it back?”

Blackwall rolled the sleeves of his tunic and approached the ram. “Do I have a choice?”

He pointed with his chin to the head of the ram. Solas complied and likewise rolled up his sleeves, grabbing the horns.

“Usually not if you have to ask,” Varric laughed.

Mirwen had been correct. He did miss being in nature; being voluntarily confined to the curved walls of the rotunda, careful with his every movement, had taken a toll on him. The noisy stillness of the forest, the calculated tension of the hunt or the multitude of textures beneath his feet – while overwhelming after his solitude in Skyhold, the feelings and sounds were more than welcome.

“You’re curiously quiet. What do you think of those friends of Hawke’s, Solas?” Blackwall asked while sounding as if he last-second dodged the fallen branch that he had just passed.

“They seem tight-knit and dedicated to each other,” Solas replied carefully.

“Really? No other thoughts? No opinions on that Anders?”

“I am pledged to the Inquisition and, therefore, the Inquisitor. I will not undermine her with any ill opinions of subjective manner in the eve of a battle.”

“Speaking of that,” Varric said, approaching him and lowering his voice. “Thanks for not doing one of your usual lectures with Merrill.”

“I always honour my promises, Master Tethras.”

***

The combined groups felt distant even with their objective closeness, the current discussions carrying a dissonance atop his inner musings.

They were peculiar.

The silver-haired elf seemed to harbour traces of lyrium despite not showcasing any magical talents and instead relying on a greatsword. There was a tinge of familiarity in an aura that, according to all modern laws of nature, should not exist around an elf born without mysticism. Solas had wanted to ask Fenris about them but was quickly shut down by Aidan; the look he’d been given was enough to understand that this was not a subject to be discussed.

The two of them appeared close and protective of each other. Often, he caught fugitive looks being returned, and he had recognised a range of emotions within them: anger, worry… anguish, remorse… longing and affection. He supposed that was to be expected; they were constantly on the run, being dragged away by Hawke in the midst of a war. This would be Mirwen’s life after the Inquisition, should he give in to his love. 

He felt a knot tighten in his throat. There would be a time when he would have to reveal his identity and face the reality that she would turn against him, like so many did before. And could he blame her? He had been the bringer of damnation and rapid decline of their empire. He was the reason her people had been reduced to only a shadow of their former glory. His only redeemable qualities would always be overshadowed by his bitter deceptions.

And those were hard to ignore when both Dalish women swore by the Creators. The war and atrocities seen had only briefly dwindled Mirwen’s faith, perhaps also in part due to being ripped from the cradle of her clan and, implicitly, her tradition-centric world, but in meeting Merrill the religion and its rituals had been revitalised. The hunger for a community that would finally understand what she’s been going though had to have been unbearable.

His remorse over not doing anything to alleviate the pain almost outweighed the desperation to stop their false belief. He hadn’t done anything for that matter either – it would have been arrogant cruelty to break their bond now.

Luckily Merrill hadn’t asked him much. The Dalish were usually apprehensive at the sight of his bare face, but not her. She had been cordial and had been pleasantly surprised at the realisation that he spoke the People’s language, but that is where their interactions ended. She had been much more interested in the Anchor and Mirwen’s plight of being named the Herald of Andraste. She hadn’t even given him a second glance, despite wearing a sylvanwood ring on a necklace.

The moment he had noticed it, memories flooded him; it was the start of the uprising. He led an infiltration in Elgar’nan’s temple, meaning to steal the very catalyst of their madness and end the inevitable war without more bloodshed. He had been blinded by fury – the death of Mythal hung low on him, and he made mistakes. Too many mistakes: one wrongly delegated spy, one skewed pathfinding thread, one missed moment of shifting weight from the ball of his foot to the heel.

His plan had been meticulously outlined, yet his downfall was the inability of fully controlling his emotions. They were captured before they could move past the inner sanctum. Thrown into a jail, hanging over the pit filled with the Evanuris’ agony, he would hear the wretched song calling for him into the abyss. Forlorn, he would feel the warm tendrils of its embrace creeping further to him day by day.

Just as he thought the ruin would grow inside of him, he was taken out and brought before the subjects of the traitorous collective. Bound, he was flanked by Dirthamen and Falon’Din, while the craftsman was circling the gilded, opulent podium from which Elgar’nan would address his vassals in the past, hand in hand with his queen Mythal.

Solas could still feel the fatigue inflicted on him, and he had felt it through millennia in uthenera.    

“ _Here he stands, your sinner and their saint,_ ” June had finally turned towards him, his deep voice resounding over the frenzied crowd. “ _He has tried and failed to steal from the Eldest of the Sun. He has moved with the shadows – a mockery of the All-Father, and spoke of delivering his false justice – a mockery of the All-Mother._ ”

The red haze was still clouding Solas’s eyes and blocked his hearing. He still couldn’t trust his memory on whether or not they accepted the blame of Mythal’s death or if they still attributed it to him. Though he supposed it was neither, if the Dalish accounts were anything to go by.

The rest of the speech had been a blur, with his mind always fighting to catch up with his eyes. His limbs might have been on the brink of collapse, as his next figment of memory had him arm in arm with the two men on either side of him. Then, a wide and massive platter had been brought at his feet; the delicate golden piping glistened in the light and he remembered concentrating on it, desperate to cling onto shapes that made sense. The green mosaic swirls underneath called dangerously to him, soothing, and he almost wanted to reach out, to move the myriad of wooden rings out of the way. 

June reached out and grabbed Solas’s arm. He had still been wearing his leather armour, and so his right sleeve had been yanked up with ease. He had tried to steady himself, to at least show a measure of dignity in his last moments, but when June dug his fingers into his arm, raising it above, he noticed the ceremonial dagger’s blade glimmering at his side – it would either be a very slow and inefficient death, or it would be used for a message. He wouldn’t put either past the craftsman.

“ _He thought he could move undetected, stalking around the holy temple. He wanted a hunt - the All-Father graciously obliges,”_ he said, bringing the dagger to the strained forearm. June’s amber eyes pinned his own, the red fog viciously splaying over the man’s battle-hardened jaw. _“We shall give the Dread Wolf a hunt!”_  

The sudden, sharp pain rippled through his arm, and he couldn’t tell if it came from the blade or from the claw-like grip over the crimson line. His cries of pain were smothered by the clench of his teeth and his own nails digging into his left fist.

“ _Your protectors will all receive a sylvanwood ring, to guard you against the Wolf and to prey on him when the time comes. You shan’t be afraid of Fen’Harel!”_

As the two brothers carried him away from the crowd, he saw rings stained by his blood.

The burnt piece of meat crunched softly under his bite.

Merrill’s couldn’t have been of June’s making, otherwise she would have been far more worried of his presence. Or at least more interested.

Which is exactly what he was concerning the human mage. He’d caught him staring for short fractions of moments, his eyes glowing blue. He recognised Anders as the man responsible for the gruesome decline of Kirkwall, but there was something unnerving about him that far succeeded his reputation.

Still, Aidan was protective of him, showing great care in their interactions. Though, truth to be told, he was careful with all of them. He was still sarcastic and carefree, but a tinge of warmth laced every word spoken to them.

Solas could see himself in Hawke. His young self was similarly arrogant, reckless and felt that the whole world stretched beneath his feet. Nothing could stand between his goals and his unassailable focus.

He despised him. Aidan represented everything he had fought to leave behind, to train and refine in order to carve out a better path. The man embraced all these flaws with open arms and diverged even further by putting his lover and friends before his people; he indulged in every emotion that Solas denied himself.

Mirwen approached him and her footsteps snapped him out of his reverie.

“You don’t want to join the fun?” she asked while handing him a half-empty bottle of alcohol.

“I prefer solitude before a fight.”

“Oh, should I leave then?” she asked, raising her eyebrow together with the corner of her mouth.

Solas simply returned the smirk and moved to the side, to consolidate his unspoken response. He took a swig from the bottle. _West Hill Brandy_ , he noted. He has had it a few times in Haven.

“It’s not only the fort. Josephine has given me a report that merchants are unable to pass through Crestwood, and those that did told concerning stories. We’ll have to clean up whatever is going on down there,” Mirwen said as the brandy changed hands.

“Very well. There is no time to rest for the Inquisition.”

“Not just that, but we need influence to get an invitation to the Winter Palace. We need to spread the word of our,” she grimaced “… power, if we want those Orlesian shems to pay any attention to us, even though all we want is for their empire to not collapse.”

“Do you believe Crestwood would suffice?”

“Truthfully? No. But diplomacy between nations is not my strongest suit, as you may have seen. To me it just looks like a never-ending pile of letters and rejections. But Josephine seems a bit more optimistic. It would at least give us a path to follow, with all those caravans that would be able to travel between Orlais and Denerim.” 

Solas hummed. “It is indeed a battle against time now.”

“You should also get ready for a trip to Halamshiral.”

“Oh?” Solas cocked his head, stopping another sip. “Surely there would be others better suited for the court. I cannot see how having an elven apostate mage with you would work in the Inquisition’s favour.”

Mirwen laughed and gently patted the staff that she’d laid next to her. “It’s kind of late for the Inquisition to reconsider its stance on elven apostate mages, don’t you think?” 

“I suppose it is,” he added his own chuckle to her cheer. 

“Besides, there is no one else who would understand the importance of us walking on the pavement of Halamshiral.”

And yet again, decisions that seemed simple for her embraced him with a warmth that was always slightly foreign to him. He should have followed with an argument, to change her mind and convince her that he would hinder her mission, though he invariably felt a sense of fear and uneasiness whenever he was left behind at Skyhold as she proceeded with her incursions around Ferelden.   

He waved the thought away with an imaginary gust of wind; it would be foolish not to recognise this decision as it was: a very interesting predicament for his efforts to recover the Eluvians. Unknowingly, she had just provided him with an important strategical piece - all that remains for him and his agents is to prepare for his arrival at the Winter Palace.

The intoxicating scent of brandy filled his nostrils as he took another gulp. She was indirectly working for the People. She deserved to know. She deserved to at least know that Halamshiral was just an empty attempt to reconstruct the ancient splendour that was Arlathan. 

He quickly removed the hand whose back somehow found its way to her cheek.  

“Solas! Dimondback, are you in?” Blackwall shouted from the huddled group.

“I will have to pass tonight,” he responded, standing up and giving a short nod to Mirwen to signal his goodbye. “I thought you wanted to win for once, anyway,” he added, as he made his way towards his assigned tent.


	14. Acts of Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas gets to take part in the capturing of Caer Bronach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence, mentions of blood.

Solas pulled the hood further over his forehead, and he saw the shadow of hands mirroring this motion; the rainfall was heavy and nefarious, unforgiving on their mud-addled stride, yet unconcealing from a keen eye.

The disadvantage of being a mage meant that they had to scour the area around the fort unarmed in order to not be scrutinised by the garrison posted by the entrance. The advantage of being a good mage, albeit weakened by uthenera, was that he could still enmesh the energy of the Fade around his arms. It was primal and unstable without a staff, but calling upon the Veil for aid in either striking or smothering his targets was still useful should they find themselves in combat.

Hawke still carried his weapons, though it was not hard to conceal a pair of cleavers and how-many daggers he may have with him. Blackwall had to leave his ornate griffon shield with their staves back in the camp. Varric refused to leave Bianca behind.

A group of Fereldans passed them; hunched, lost, with the Rift in the lake seeping its seed of misery in each of their flinching steps. _Crestwood is a wretched shadow of a land; great sacrifices call for more through the tapestry of time. I wonder how many more people have added their own, on top of the Elvhenan_ , Solas noted grimly, adjusting the cowl over his ears; they kept protesting their confinement even after this countless attempt at appeasement.

They gave brief glances towards the fort. One massive door – wood. Tall walls – unscalable. Archers that patrolled the battlements - vigilant. Gallows right next to the fort – grisly. 

It was unlikely to find any subterranean entrance; the lake would have flooded them all.

They proceeded further, shielded from the eyes of the guards but close enough to still be able to see the grey turrets.

“What do we do, we can’t just charge the main door. Even during the night, they would still hear us coming,” Blackwall said, frowning.

“See, that is why I’ve invited myself on your mission. They didn’t call me the best Shadow in Kirkwall for nothing,” Aidan answered smugly.

“Didn’t they just call you ‘the Champion’?” Blackwall asked with a sigh. “I’ve never heard you being referred to as anything else.”

“Well, that, and the best Assassin. Look, I am a man of many titles.”

“Wait until you hear the more colourful ones,” Varric chimed in, nudging the Warden with a wink.

“Is there a hidden entrance that you’ve spotted, famed Shadow?” Solas asked impatiently.

“Yes, did you notice the gallows by the South-Eastern wall?” Aidan responded, unfazed by the snide remark. “The land is raised enough to easily slip into the fort through there, provided someone gives me a hand.”

“You don’t think the guards would be more watchful on that side of the fort? They must be aware of this weakness,” Mirwen said, glancing towards the changing guards on the battlements.

“Depends on the hour of the night. Focus is at its lowest right before the change arrives, and you will find that most people have a movement pattern they prefer when they are patrolling. They rarely stray away from it – it’s more important to have your mind concentrate on shifting shadows than on where you’ll walk towards next.”

“Do you think you can open the door before they sound the alarm?”

“Oh, my dear Inquisitress, I can guarantee you there will be none left around the main gate to sound the alarm.”

*** 

The deluge continued, dropping heavy darkness in its flurry. No stars to guide them this night – clouds shielded them with a gloomy film.

In the light of his veilfire, they prepared for the fight. Solas refastened his damp leg wrappings and donned his armoured pauldron. He had polished the staff’s blade – he wasn’t too fond of blood-stained weapons if he could help it, even in the wake of a battle, when it would inevitably be painted in crimson again.

It was silent, save for the crackling of the arcane fire under the thin barrier, the clank of armour being settled on shoulders, and the solemn Dalish recitation.

“We few who travel far; call to me and I will come, without mercy, without fear. Cry havoc in the moonlight.” Merrill and Mirwen’s voices entwined in tense monotone.

In its Elvhen version it used to be a chant, begun by the Firsts and the riders of Mythal as they proceeded forth with the army, with each row of soldiers chanting in canon. With each verse, the voices would become louder, and with each wave being swept over the organised mass, another one would begin, more vicious than the last. On its seventh surge, it would start melting into the chant of Elgar’Nan, accompanied by drumming gallops.

“Lasa nan’ise nuis, tuaun leal,” Solas whispered in tune, finishing their prayer.

He had seen Merrill touch her vallaslin-adorned forehead with Varric, Hawke and the rest of his group; he remembered it to be a sign of closeness, which the Dalish shared sparingly with outsiders. _Marked as lethallen. For good luck or farewell?_ She was now sharing this same act with Mirwen, with eyes closed solemnly and temples softly touched by fingers. He smiled faintly at their intimacy and acceptance – he would never be able to give her the cultural closeness that she desperately craved within this foreign institution. He doubted any knowledge of Elvhenan that he could share would soothe her ache.

He recalled a Dalish clan which he visited shortly after his awakening; he had been welcomed with open arms seeing as he looked absolutely dreadful and in desperate need for help. It hadn’t been his plan to deceive them in this manner – he did not quite get the subtleties of this new world just yet and he didn’t accept much of his agents’ help on this matter.

Slowly, he had gained their trust. He had made friends – all fleeting relationships. Any closeness developed then seemed like a haze, ephemeral, irreal. They had touched their foreheads to his, they had offered to give him a vallaslin – they had suggested Ghilan’nain’s, to thank her for bringing him to them.

He had laughed at them. He had told them that he would not be marked as a slave to a false god. He had told them there was a time when their perceived gods treated their branded as no better than the shemlen treat their cattle.

A cringe violently swept his features, and shame burned his cheeks.

***

“There – see? That guard waited for exactly three seconds before turning his back to the wall. Again, just like before. The other one must be halfway towards the end of the pathway now. This one's concentrated on the Western side of the land,” Aidan giddily whispered, pointing almost absently at the path of the patrol. “Hm? What’s he doing, is he frozen?”

“He is tired, he is losing focus,” Solas breathed, feeling a slight rush boiling inside of him.

“This is it, let’s go, Hawke,” Blackwall added, extending his hand to help the other man stand.

The plan was simple: the Warden would help Aidan scale the wall and he would get back to the rest of the group. They would then wait for the three archers posted on the frontal battlements to start trickling from their vision, moment in which they could start slowly moving towards the entrance. All that would remain to do would be to trust Hawke that he would be able to move unseen and open the gate.

“I’ll see you on the other side, yeah?” Aidan told Fenris, before planting a quick kiss on his lips.

“Try not to get yourself killed,” the elf replied dryly rustling Hawke’s soaked hair, his lingering palm conveying worry.

Solas could feel his pulse quickening. His eyes followed the hunching shadows of the two men; it has been eons since he had taken part in a strategized battle and he hadn’t quite anticipated how much he had missed this. He would share the rear lines with Anders, though the presence of another Spirit Healer meant that he could be more offensive in his approach.

_Spirit… healer_ , he repeated, baffled. Of course! How could he not have realised this sooner? He carried the Fade in his eyes, and left trails of ancient power in his wake. The question that remains is what spirit? How did this change him, how would it affect him? And, most importantly, would this communion have changed the nature of the spirit – or had it always been a demon?

The tired archer’s scrutinising gaze rolled past their hiding place. He seemed completely oblivious at the lack of his colleague’s return. There were now only two guards peeking behind the crenels – they started moving.

“This is our cue,” Mirwen announced firmly. “Keep to the ground.”

With staves parallel to the dirt below, they dispersed their shadows on either side of the path to their right. The night was their ally, for the archer’s focus was rapidly deteriorating. He was lingering far too long on the Western section.

Then – he fell. No sound on the pooling rain, no scream to announce his demise; Hawke was fulfilling his promise flawlessly. It would remain to be seen how effective their assault would be after the gate’s noisy opening.  

By the time they had reached the entrance, Aidan was bringing his role to completion.

“Distinguished guests. Welcome to Caer Bronach, soon-to-be the seat of the Inquisition in Crestwood. After it has been cleaned up and the loot has been split, of course,” he greeted them with a courtly bow.

They spared no more moments. Frantic shouts webbed through the higher levels of the fort, and an alarm was sounded somewhere on the levels above – the barracks had awakened.

Fenris charged forth, quickly followed by Blackwall; Hawke kept to the shadowed walls, and the two Dalish mages cast their respective armours as they advanced up the stairs. Solas quickly raised barriers around them, and Anders’s deft fingers grabbed the energy gathering atop his staff and dispersed it in a large circle – he could feel the soothing warmth of Panacea tingling under his skin.

An arrow flew by their secluded line, and Varric responded with a quick bolt. _And so, the dance begins._

Explosion. The searing lights of a fire mine and the rapid succession of Wildfire. The scent of burning skin and leather armour. He saw the shifting shades of a flank attack – he impaled the rear with a scorching blade and struck the one on the left with a Stonefist. He grabbed the trailing tail of the Fade boulder, reducing it to a small pebble sitting snug in its verdant cradle of his palm, and sent it back in growing form towards the former attacker, liberating his staff in gushing, crimson ribbons.

He drummed his staff on the ground, and felt it throb beneath his feet; he twisted the veil and reshaped it around his allies – refresh their focus; and lurched the flickering energies upon his enemies – smothering and encircling. Forceful clank of metal on metal, dissonant sounds paradoxical in their melody; violent zaps of whipping currents; resounding cracks of splintering wood creating a path beneath Merrill and the frenzied Highwaymen.

Exhilarating.

Invigorating.

Intoxicating.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this famished for a good fight. Everything they’ve had so far had either been clunky and disorganised, encountering blinded demons or undisciplined Templars and apostates. He felt his focus travelling from limb to limb, swimming through his veins with glowing vigour. He was in control. He ruled over his own senses.

Solas cast a wide barrier, settling over the warriors and the Dalish mages as Mirwen’s Veilstrike sundered the bandits’ precarious equilibrium over Fenris and Blackwall.

Crimson ran in streams over the rain-riddled stone, the resident bandits falling one by one. Engulfing smoke, rapid slashing, resounding thumps – a body fell and revealed the already fleeing rogue. A hail of bolts, plunging quicker than the droplets of water – Varric shouted something to his friend; he couldn’t hear over the sizzling sounds of ice mines.

Slash. Fumes. Dancing ice and fire. Ensnaring branches. The cool caress of numbness over aching wounds.

Silence. Only rain falling uncaringly.

It was done. They had captured the fort.

***

He chose the humdrum drips to persist in his dreamfields, the water drizzling in mellow flow, absorbed by the emerald floor as soon as it greeted it. Garion was sitting at a table, writing in his worn tome.

Gone was the Orlesian grandeur of his room, as it was reshaped by Solas to resemble an old study of his from his time as a general; no unnecessary frills, just austere décor, the only colour coming from the mosaic beneath – the beginnings of Elvhenan architectural elevation. 

“We have managed to bring Dithra and the others in the camp. They have been given a warm reception,” Garion broke the silence, without breaking his calm writing. “It’s good to finally see my sister, though she was sent back into the field to gather more information about Gaspard. Your plan succeeded, Rajelan. Briala has slowly started to trust me.”

Solas hummed, pacing around the room. His old ceremonial helmet stared him down from atop a shelf, the lush feather crest swirling elegantly around the base of its stand. The golden tips were the only signs of opulence on an otherwise Obsidian-forged gear. He unglued a hand from its usual resting place at the small of his back and traced the outline of the visor with patient fingers.

Patience was needed. Anything to break the need to give in to the blasted sylvanwood door that taunted him so.

Anywhere he moved, anywhere he looked, it was always in the periphery of his vision tormenting him with decadent scents of the forest and honeyed hums. The Dalish mask was competing for attention, inviting, and the door donned only a handle – a sign: he was welcome to enter anytime.

“ _It might not be my place, but it’s downright sad, Chuckles. You’ve got to do something about it. Do you know how many times she looks at you when you’re not watching?”_

_“How observant of you, child of Stone. And what do you suggest me to do with this revelation?”_ he had all but spat his response.

_“To stop being so uptight and start showing some courage, for both of your sakes. Maker knows how many now regret to have loved and left.”_

_Wicked door! This is the last thing I needed to be haunted by, in my own dream nonetheless!_ He breathed in deeply.

“I have been told by the Inquisitor that I may be visiting Halamshiral. Prepare for my arrival.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lasa nan’ise nuis, tuaun leal. - Let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear.
> 
> The prayer was taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen: "Expanding the Elvhen Language", Ch. 26: The Songs of the Creators.
> 
> The act of vallaslin touching was borrowed from the lovely Hezjena2023's [The Rituals of the Dalish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056334/chapters/40104194) <3
> 
> *edited to change Merrill and Mirwen's part of the prayer from Elven to Trade, because I felt it made more sense like this >.<


	15. In Absentia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas has trouble concentrating on anything for too long, but has a bit of time for astral lessons.

“Briala has been tipped that the Inquisition plans on visiting the Winter Palace on a diplomatic mission. I have a few people assigned with supposedly contacting a more trustworthy person for our cause.”

Garion’s voice seemed tattered and distant, as if the Fade also simulated the hundreds of kilometres between them. Solas was looking through him; he saw his lips moving, and yet he could not hear any more words from him. 

He turned around, rubbing his eyes, pulling his hand towards his forehead and finally raking his fingers over his prickly scalp. Try as he might, he could not concentrate on the task at hand – a dangerous path to find himself on, given that all his efforts to recover the Network were finally culminating in a more favourable resolution.

The heat of embarrassment reached the tip of his ears and he felt numbing pain creeping in, settling uncomfortably underneath his furrowed brows. He was suffering a sudden stripping of all the years of accumulated experience, as if he was nothing more than a green soldier with higher aspirations who did not quite grasp the burden of leadership.

A burden that somehow both caused his sagging shoulders to crush under its immeasurable gravity, and was now crumbling between his tenacious fingers. How absurd it was that it would elude him just as they were so close to reclaiming a piece of Elvhenan.

“Rajelan?” Garion asked, and Solas wondered how long it had been since the other elvhen gave up on his report.

He straightened his back and took a deep breath. _An embarrassment that should not have happened._

“We will have to resume some other time. Meeting adjourned,” he threw the words over his shoulder, moving with assured stride towards the exit, the room evaporating in linen-like pieces in the process.

The hallway was silent.

All the competing streams of thoughts had been pushed away from his mind, as they would be in this meditative state. He watched the golden turrets outside the tall windows melt into each other in glistening streams, leaving only steady waves in their dissolvement. Serene, the tides crushed against a milky shore, which slowly morphed back into the spiralling Elvhen towers.

He remembered gazing upon them in the wake of the age of the Evanuris, and his wonder was just as alive now as it had been in the past. _So much has been lost to the Veil_ , he told himself, more as a statement than a longing assessment.

The walk was resumed, continuing down the hallway into the unlit portion of his dream, devoid of any doors. With closed eyes, he placed haphazard fingers on the wall; gooey, their smoky erosion felt in the cold coils that he left behind. He didn’t need to watch the theatricality of the dancing mist to know that the hallway was disappearing with each step that he took.

His breath hitched, as he reached the end of his incursion. Opening his eyes, he studied the dark wood of the door. Its style was simple, uncluttered – almost innocent, though its beauty laid in the calm warmth it emanated.

He sat himself in front of it, taking in the alluring scent of the forest. He couldn’t remember when the door had first appeared in his dreams – it felt like it had been there since the beginning of time. The sense of familiarity that it induced was comforting in a terribly dangerous way, and it only made him want to press the handle and enter the chamber.

Solas knew what was behind – the ruin of all his purpose in this new world of his creation, and yet how many hours was he willing to spend helpless in front of it? He could not act on impulse again, lest he would not only hurt himself, but also her in the process; he could not bear to be branded as a deceiver by her.

Wasn’t he already deceiving them?

_This is not real, this is not your time, these are not your people._ _I am in control. I will not relent, I will not yield. I have long ceased to exist only for myself, I have been given to Elvhenan,_ he told himself, in a stilted tone.

…and he hung his head low, touching his forehead to the knees that he’d brought close to his chest.

***

He allowed himself to lounge on the cold grass, legs arranged nonchalantly: the right bent at the knee, the other comfortably laid on the ground, tucked under the arch. Normally, he would have felt inappropriate in such a display, but the rush of relaxation, combined with the recent conquest and the smoky fumes of alcohol, emptied him of his usual reluctance – just as he was steadily emptying the bottle in his hand.

It was the first calm night since they had arrived in Crestwood, and they had all embraced this good sign in a feverish celebration. Although the new Warden had been reticent and tense at first, he was now bonding fast with the rest of the group after their few rounds of Wicked Grace.

Crystalline laughter, heroic and embarrassing stories, the clink of knocking bottles: the sounds raised above the campfire and brought him a sense of familiarity that he had thought long gone.

“Oh, you know how it goes. You fight your way through darkspawn, you face the Archdemon, see your dearly beloved strike the beast down only to watch bureaucracy defeat you. At least Harea isn’t here to be hunted by our brothers and sisters…” Alistair laughed, a fleeting tinge of sadness marring his voice. “They think The Calling is scary. Wait ‘til you get the worst scold of your life in five words.”   

They raised their bottles in a hearty salute for the Hero of Ferelden and thanked the Warden for joining them.

Solas liked him. He was aware of his role in the grand scheme of things and was brave enough to challenge authority. He seemed devoted to his cause, but more importantly he was devoted to the judgement of the slayer of Urthemiel - or had been? _The Spoke of Beauty has fallen_ , he noted quickly with a grim frown, idly spiralling the alcohol in its bottle.

Nevertheless, the man was almost too easy to read. 

There was a crude fearlessness in Alistair’s stories; with their order betrayed, hunted by a man who was sworn to protect his country and his king, they had still managed to amass people devoted to their cause. With an elven mage counterpart, nonetheless, that was given important accolades. A story not unlike the Inquisition’s: raising from the ashes of a secular behemoth to protect the people, non-discriminatory in their worthiness.

Dissimilar to the Inquisition, though, they blindly marched forward into reshaping the world.   

“I thought I’d never see the night sky again with all that storm,” Mirwen said, carefully drinking from her own bottle.

“Even the greatest forces of nature have their end,” Solas replied, concentrating on the Warden’s inflexions of emotions, continuing his analysis.

Mirwen hummed. “I will have to check on your words if Cassandra will ever forgive Varric for keeping Aidan hidden.”

_He could have continued to do so_ , he noted morosely.

“Do you remember the first clear night we had in Haven? You had been similarly convinced that you would never see the stars again,” Solas responded, shifting his gaze towards the flickering constellations. 

“Yes, and I had told you I wished I could pluck them all and put them in my basket. You thought I was actually serious and called me silly.”

He chuckled, a hint of a snort escaping him; he left the bottle on the ground and ruffled her hair, trailing his fingers through her soft, wavy locks.

“The lyricism of your words was not lost on me... in their sillyness."

She frowned, though the playful smile burrowed in her puffy cheeks betrayed her acceptance of his words.

“Tease,” she answered, lowering herself on her elbows next to him. “I didn’t realise the Fade could make you this snarky.”

“It has its advantages. Though spirits are generally unwilling to have any exchanges apart from those of serious nature.”

“What, you’re telling me that Cole isn’t joking when he blurts out our deepest secrets for the whole party to hear?” she laughed, her mirth drowning all the jovial voices around the campfire.

He couldn’t quite possibly fathom how easily she had gotten under his skin, even after her shown apprehension towards him. A harsh remark about the Dalish, a bleak truth about their history, a praise for the Seeker’s Order and he was sure that was the beginning of only strained cordiality between them. And yet she’d come back every day, challenging and understanding, asking for more and more stories from within the Fade that he’d lost count.   

“Speaking of serious: you still haven’t taught me all the constellations.”

“Ah, is it acceptable for the Inquisitor to occupy herself with such frivolous lessons?”

“Disregarding my role is a second nature by now. I’m sure you remember I was supposed to be a First.”

Solas turned his eyes towards the sky, concentrating on the stars he hadn’t yet connected for her. He heard the sudden splash of liquid being moved around a glass bottle, and he mirrored her action albeit with more care.

“There is the Flaming Heart, the one whose stars fan out and spill the embers on its left,” he began, tracing the lines idly. “The dip begins to the North-East of Satina, and the flames end right beneath the Halla’s hooves.”

Mirwen hummed in delight. “That I know – it has the star of Ghilan’nain, which we follow when our path seems misplaced should we get lost into the woods hunting.”

“Then you have the Owl, whose flight stretches the longest, from the Halla’s tail far towards its right.”

“Tell me – I remember the stars of Vir Tanadhal and those of the Aravel, but I can never remember what that one,” she stopped, tracing with her fingers as if it would help Solas figure out what she was referring to, “… the one right between them…”

He finally ruptured himself from the sky, studying her as she explained herself. He trailed the lines of her vallaslin, all too painful for him to note. Dirthamen, the Betrayed, the one who masterfully laid his web of secrets, learned or induced, over the canopy of warring Evanuris. _Let them be my chains_ , he repeated for the millionth of times, watching as the crimson lines contorted deliciously on her smiling cheeks – realising her own mistake of trying to explain the placement of the stars she was referring to – and under her full lips.

He imagined himself extending his arm, grabbing her inviting jaw. He would trail a steady thumb over her lower lip, grazing his nail over chapped skin, pushing the alluring rim down and exposing her surprised mouth. Delightful. Tempting. _Seductive_ , he finished his enumeration with deep breath. Her warm gasp over his skin would send magnificent tingles down his spine, almost as ravishing as she looked under the moonlight and the happily crackling fire of their makeshift camp.

He bit the insides of his lip. Harder. Forced himself to disturb his shameful gaze, looking upwards at the crimson raven: _Let this be my chains!_ he’d shouted in his mind, but even the echoes sounded cracked. 

“It has many names. In Tevene it would be called Silentir, although you might be more inclined to associate it with a Mythal’s dragon. Ancient elves had a name for it as well, though it seems no other civilization has adopted it since.”

“What did they call it?” she asked, leaning a feather-like touch of her head onto his shoulder, the scent of the forest that she carried delicately melding with the drink she’d had.

“The Scales” – _Tunan,_  he trailed the thought, together with the name’s whisper.

Recklessly, he wished she’d just rest comfortably on his shoulder as his arm would contently rest around her hip – and he blamed it on the alcohol.

If only he could feel its dizzying numbness!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference for the constellations:  
> Flaming Heart - Toth  
> Halla - Equinor  
> Owl - Tenebrium  
> Vir Tanadhal - Fervenial  
> Aravel - Peraquialus
> 
> Translations:  
> Tunan - Justice/ punishment
> 
> ...I swear I sat down thinking I was only going to write fluff for this chapter D:


	16. Wide-Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which the inquisitorial party closes the Rift in the lake, and the Calling is a bit too much to bear for some.

 

“There is something terribly off about this place…” Mirwen said, as she shook off a weakened spirit clutching at her ankles.

“Agreed,” Varric answered in low voice. “This feels like someone’s vague written description about a village, where they had only outlined its beginning and its end.” 

Aidan snorted. “So much for the jolly atmosphere. I was counting on you, Varric.”

“The village was hit by darkspawn during the Blight,” Alistair chimed in with grim tone. “These things tend to leave lasting scars.”

Solas could agree with them. The shambles certainly carried an ominous aura, and the abundance of aimless spirits did not help its case – but, that was to be expected on an ancient war field.

The area was all too familiar for him; the perilous land had been the resting place of the last attempt of changing the unforgiving tides of the creation of the Veil and, afterwards, remained a no man’s land as his forces retreated towards Skyhold.

The weakening of the Veil, though, must have been caused by consecutive battles. The stirrings in the Void had always been fickle towards the material world – once they had tasted the ghastly nectar of sacrifice, they would continuously demand for more to be spilled onto the same soil, thus creating a macabre cycle from which there would be no escape. _Aside from tearing down the Veil and beginning anew_ , he thought to himself with an impassable expression.

“Scatter around, see if you can find anything about what might have happened here,” Mirwen shouted, and he could see the now-large group silently complying.

“You are settling into your leadership role quite nicely, Inquisitor.”

“I don’t have much choice, do I? It’s not what I had expected to be doing when I criticised the Keepers for the clans’ apathy towards this whole…” she stopped, making an erratic movement of hand in the air as she scoured the worn houses with frowning eyes, “… thing that the shems began between themselves. But I suppose this is one way to stand up for the Dalish.”

“If it will bring you any comfort, they definitely would not be able to leave you out of the records,” Solas responded, leaning onto his staff as he trudged through the muck.

She laughed tiredly. “What privilege.”

He could not help but reflect on how distorted history can become once it meets even the most insignificant shred of bias, and he wondered towards whom the scales of narrative would be inclined. A grimace almost surfaced – he could not bear the thought that she would be vilified, after all that she has endured and still must endure.

The strong urge to grab her hand and gently stroke her fingers was quickly tamed. 

“Mirwen!” Merrill’s call could be heard from somewhere behind them. “Lethallan, I’ve found something!”

Mirwen gave him a faint smile and a short nod, proceeding with assured stride towards the shabby house from which Merrill was waving.

Solas turned his gaze towards the crackling emerald vibrancy of the Rift. It was raining – _Of course it would be raining again_ – but at least it stopped outright pouring water into the Fade. He could only hope that they would manage to close these fissures in time, before the Veil would rupture itself apart in an untimely manner.

***

Wondering spirits peppered the flooded caverns, and he felt a shiver down his spine at the sight of the old ruins. The lifeless water-soaked bodies of afflicted townspeople dotted the musty alcoves. He felt nauseous, as the deluge had never been able to wash away the malodour of decay.

Alistair shook his head. “Make no mistake, this is the stench of taint, but not all of the dead show signs of it. Does anyone else feel played?”

“The mayor would better have answers for us,” Blackwall mumbled, slightly distracted by a spirit aimlessly floating in his direction.

They proceeded further down the spiralling walkways, stumbling upon deep roads; it was positively curious to see dwarven statues that resembled dragons, and Solas followed the angular shapes with an intrigued eye. These were unlike the ones raised by Mythal’s workers, which had understandably followed Elvhen conventions, but were more akin to the geometrical style of the children of Stone thus blending perfectly with the décor. He pondered just how much the collective consciousness retained from the times of old and marvelled again at the prowess of the Pillars – how easily they could send memories through their genetical filaments while being blissfully unaware of the beginning threads of the tapestry.

_Little stones, never yours the sun_ , he remembered the words, the conflict in his inner-voice just as shattering as a droplet would be breaching the still equilibrium of his thoughts’ waters.

The children of the Stone had managed to build a colossal empire, that now stood in ruins just like all great empires would once greed, arrogance and sloth settles onto their leaders’ thrones. It was even more curious to see that they could so easily reclaim what was lost if they would only rise and fight for it.

“The Deep Roads are truly remarkable,” Solas said, more like an announcement rather than a statement. “Do you ever wish to go back and contribute your efforts to rebuild the Dwarven Empire, Varric?”

Varric scoffed. “The Empire,” he said, rolling his eyes. “The Empire’s now just a bunch of sparring castes, that are busier handing out disownments like candy if it suits their image. What’s there to rebuild? Let history flow and don’t force her hand. It’ll be all the same for me anyway.”

“But what if it would not be this way?” Solas pushed. “What if your quality of life improved by recovering what was lost?”

“Improving my quality of life implies that I’m not happy with my life. Sure, we have the threat of that old magister maniac, but for that I am doing my part – while letting time move on.”

Solas pondered the dwarf’s words as he glanced up, towards the statue of a long-forgotten Paragon.

“That is a good point,” he finally mustered to respond, letting the rest of the group pass them, in the search for the Rift’s root.

“Some things are just worth more than the past, and I, for one, am more interested in new stories.”

He followed Mirwen’s confident steps through the ruins, who was now strategizing with the two Wardens – perhaps filling Alistair in on the best course of attack when it comes to closing the Rifts. The little flicker in her eyes gave away how much she enjoyed the power to do something greater than herself. He knew it well. He’d seen it multiple times in Haven, any time she’d discover more about the Anchor – and he could not help himself but drop more nuggets of knowledge for her to uncover.

_Perhaps you are right, master Tethras_ , he meant to say, though the words withered in his throat.

***

The piercing shriek tore through their makeshift camp; Blackwall jumped out of his bedroll without hesitation, sword in hand and eyes scanning for shuffling shadows. Solas instinctively cast a barrier around their tent, and Varric lunged towards his crossbow.

“It’s all fine,” Aidan tiredly assured them from outside.

“No, it’s not! You knew all of this was wrong, you knew he was an abomination and you still brought him with us!” Fenris retorted, as Blackwall finally parted the tent’s curtains to witness the commotion.

“He’s been like this since you left after Varric. It had gotten continuously worse until you came back…”

Merrill was shaking with irritation. Behind them, the opened tent of the Warden radiated in a pulsating blue glow for three heartbeats, then it flashed shut. _Ah_ , Solas barely whispered in understanding. _It must be the Spirit Healer._

Their bickering was insufficient to piece together the concrete mystery of the scream, though being named an ‘abomination’ along with the lyrium-blue light emanating from the tent was enough to understand that it most definitely had to do with a demon inside of him.  

This was not quite how he had expected his night to develop, though he welcomed the distraction.

Varric sighed and let himself fall back into his bedroll, sleepily clutching the crossbow at his chest. “I did not miss this,” he grumbled.

“Did this sort of thing happen often?” Blackwall asked, placing himself at the tent’s exit.

“It started to. After Corypheus’s prison tower he had these outbursts almost constantly for a week. Chuckles – “ Varric noticed Solas’s confused frown and let his hand fall onto his closed eyes, “Hawke! Andraste’s holy knickers, I need to pick better nicknames… He had to move into Blondie’s clinic just to make sure that he wasn’t going to hurt himself or others.”

“Great! Just what we needed,” Blackwall responded morosely. “Why after Corypheus? What does that have to do with anything?”

Varric hummed in the sound of a man that did not appreciate being kept awake. “He used to be a Warden. I hear that you can’t just decide to stop being one, though. Say,” he paused, poking Solas with his elbow, “you’re good with spirits, right? Can’t you help Blondie with his? It’s got to be Justice that’s taken over now.”   

“I am not the Inquisition’s hound. You cannot just pit me against the creatures of the Fade.”

“Yeah. Guess it was too much to ask of you,” and with that, Varric turned on his side, signalling his retreat from the conversation.

Solas glanced towards Blackwall, who gave him a look that he had come to know very well from their inquisitorial incursions: ‘ _You go to sleep, I’ll stand guard._ ’ He supposed he should be thankful for the Warden’s eagerness to assume the role of the defender, but in the wake of recent events, he would have rather claimed the task for himself. The dreamfields had become a minefield, more dangerous than any possible threat lurking in the waking world.

Though, perhaps Varric had a point. He could check up on the mage in the Fade and unearth the details of this peculiar predicament of his.

He settled onto his bedroll, comfortably sinking into the prickly pelt that he used as a pillow and attempted to push away the hushed, rapid-fire words of their other guards. Aidan seemed to be losing grasp on their reality – the price to pay for his past subjectivity. The consequences for his actions will only continue to pile up.

The darkness beneath his lids engulfed the quiet tent and, in a flash, he saw again; the green and smoky tendrils of the Fade crept into his vision. An inhale – and they congregated towards the abyssal core. An exhale – and they dispersed as if gently pushed away by invisible hands. He repeated the process, feeling his whole body losing its tension in the sinuous throbs of the emerald mist.

One more breathe – and the fragments of his mental hallway started piecing together. Another – and he washed them away, moving past his own mind and into the assembling unknown.

The Fade showed him a decrepit city: its outside walls tall and proud, yet on the inside it was devoid of people, and its dilapidated buildings oozed an incandescent slime. Enormous golden statues seemed planted haphazardly into the pavement; their depiction of armoured warriors did nothing to help him decipher his possible location.

_It matters little_ , he thought, straightening his shoulders and clasping his wrists at the small of his back.

He cautiously proceeded through the wide alleys, eyes focused on the singular particle of blue light trailing towards somewhere in the distance.

“I suspect you were the one responsible for Kirkwall’s massacre,” Solas broke the silence, voice powerful and resounding, though calm and assured.

His steps on the pavement echoed in deafening noise, and for a moment he thought he would not be greeted by the entity – that he would reach the end of the path and only find the mage’s dreaming state asleep and alone, fully possessed by the demon.

“You cannot vilify me without doing so to Anders, and you cannot blame him without also charging me in the process. We are one, we are both Anders,” a disembodied voice responded, just as loud and ringing.

_That confirms one suspicion._

“You were a spirit of Justice, were you not? I have heard them referring to you as such,” Solas announced while continuing his stride, now confident with a tinge of urgency. “Surely you would understand better than anyone how a foreign entity competing in your thoughts would corrupt your purpose.”

“I have helped him bring justice onto the Templars and vengeance for the mages. This concept cannot be unfamiliar to you, Fen’Harel.”

For a moment, his temples tensed, and jaw clenched.

“I had noticed the fiery need for retribution in you from the moment you had appeared in the camp.”

“The situations are not comparable,” Solas replied, regaining his composure.

The lines of a bed peeked from the corner, and worn boots hung from its edge. With a couple of steps, the mage was beginning to reveal himself, sleeping blissfully unaware of a Dreamer’s presence in his projection.

“Then why are you awake, after prancing about the Fade in your sleep?” the powerful voice of Vengeance countered. “I have seen how you watch the elven girl.” He paused, as if to give Solas a moment to ponder. “You will not find vengeance if you let yourself be distracted. Anders understood that and kept his distance from Hawke.”

“What are you doing to him?” he asked, poised, to regain control over the conversation.

“I am simply protecting us from the false Calling.”

Solas gazed upon Anders; he would almost look content and serene, if not for the gaunt lines that coarsened his features – and he briefly wondered what was a crueller fate: to be dragged along in life by Hawke, struggling for control inside his own body as he witnessed the devastating consequences of his actions, or be left behind in the Fade, only a forgotten observer to the decisions that his limbs made at the will of Vengeance. 

“What can you tell me about that?”

The soft caress of a zephyr grazed on his cheeks, as if to announce that the entity was giving in to its own memories.

“It sounds… comforting and sinister at the same time. As if it was singing us to sleep into the earth. And it sounds magnified and flowing, as a river pumping through your veins… Can you hear it? It is playing, from right underneath the city. I remember of such a sound from before our union, though through that song I could hear only beauty.”

He turned, taking in the surroundings, his concerned eyes following the stone pavement. Golden and angular statues; kneeling figures, small and almost insignificant by contrast; chilling drawings on the walls, of agonised wight-like people… the fragments of a destroyed Chantry in the far distance. _How could I have not noticed this before_ , he chastised himself, finally understanding his location.

Kirkwall's projected ruins.

Red lyrium.

The magister must be using red lyrium to propagate his false Calling.

Solas shuddered imperceptibly at the thought, beginning his walk towards a more viable exit.

“I sense the need of vengeance in your bones, Fen’Harel.”

He stopped. Shoulders straight, posture proper, eyes fixated towards the flashing door. He titled his head slightly to the side, just to signal Vengeance that he’d heard it.

“It would be best you learn who to aim it at,” the words fell from the puppet-mage’s mouth, just as the echoes of Solas’ stride crashed onto the empty street.

_Wake up._


	17. Outlaw Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas can really concentrate on nothing but one thing.

 

 

The tower was particularly agitated this day; the clamour seemed to begin right from the Nightingale’s scouts, trickling down to the library and engulfing the mages’ voices, when it would finally crash onto the rotunda’s floor.

Solas could hear their words, but they were reduced to meaningless sounds; normally, he would have found focusing on the mages’ inane discussions to be an amusing way of passing the time. ‘ _Ugh, I hate this tome, it makes my head spin any time I try to read it’, ‘Do you think those Orlesian nobles have brought some extra cakes this time?’, ‘Why did we even need to learn all those glyphs, we never used them out in the field!’,_  ‘ _Have you visited Bull again last night?_ ’

There were other tasks to keep him busy – a research he was straddled with, due to his knowledge of the Fade – and other discussions to keep him alert.

He cast a quick barrier, braiding it with his personal aura.

The words of the demon had been concerning. To see red lyrium, so prevalent in this world, was truly a terrible sight to behold, and it seemed that its spread was never-ending. It had been used to weaken and to empower in the past, but to see it used to mass-control through mind tricks was graver than he imagined. Even if Corypheus is defeated, the precedent had already been created. Who would stop the next power-hungry abomination from taking his place?

Which was another issue to be dealt with.

Vengeance was correct after all; his attention was misplaced and cannot remain so if he wished to bring his mission to its completion.  

“Solas, have you managed to finish that research on the Rift auras? We need it to check against our results.”

He inhaled deeply and turned around to the insolent interrupter. Dorian descended on the stairs, carrying a light stack of parchments, blissfully unaware that there were more critical matters at hand.

“I was working on it, yes,” Solas responded, steadying his tone.

He gathered the loose ambient energy, preparing it to be imbued with Fade particles.

Every time he attempted to introspect, her eyes would always stare back at him from the back of his mind; happy, content, determined, just as she’d always seemed in his presence. He’d tried to push away the hope that she would want him, but truthfully, he’d always devilishly wished that it was a reality that sat between them, as uncomfortable for her as it was for him.  

“It might be worth fixing that broken knot, the ambient energy cannot twine with the Fade manipulation…”

Solas closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Unlike the noise upstairs, Dorian’s voice somehow managed to catch form; his words reverberated, scattering important thoughts.

He waved his hand in annoyance, swishing his fingers through the broken tessellation and back.

And there he was again, thinking about her when he should be unravelling the magister’s puzzle and its place into the grand scheme. He did not need vengeance – against whom? Against himself? He was the one who brought the Veil, a small distraction would be nothing in the face of his carefully created plan. It was justice that which he was seeking; he had been preparing himself for it for far too long to be derailed now. Not by the humans’ petty squabbles, not by the Dalish need for reaffirmation, not by Felassan’s foolish beliefs, not by soft lips that demanded atonement, nor rough tongue that challenged for more.  

“Ah, it seems that the net tore again. Perhaps reinforce it at the base…”

He clenched his jaw, feeling his heartbeat hastened. Exhale – empty his lungs of air and irritated thoughts alike.

Solas cast another barrier altogether, this time dismissing the other mage’s suggestion; his satisfaction at the sight of murmuring intertwined energies was only shown in the turn of his wrist.

He was less satisfied that his thoughts returned to her yet again. How baffling it had been that he had managed to care so deeply for Mirwen in such a short period of time. He had been so careful, had he not? He should be planning his future discussion with Briala, to cover all the small squares of their chess board. Her modern rebellion could definitely see a strong ally in the Inquisition, and he would gladly play this role for as long as needed. The password would surely be revealed to such an important piece.

Unless Briala would more likely ally herself directly with the leader. The two of them could bring the human kingdoms to their knees, recovering a life that was promised for the elves. The Eluvians could be forgotten, as would the ruins inside of them…

His eyes widened, and he felt panic creep in.

“Solas… The Fade energy is dangerously close to you, you need to redirect it…”

“Were you this assertive when your fellow Tevinters were collecting tranquil skulls for their heinous oculara?” Solas interrupted Dorian quickly, while the channelled energies dispersed between them. “Or were you working together with them to find whatever buried treasure they were seeking?”

“Are we seriously having this conversation?!” Dorian responded angrily, in what he could only imagine – and ignore – as matching his own tone. “Don’t be daft, Solas! Of course I did not partake in those abhorrent practices!”

“You did not participate, but did you do anything you could to stop them?”

“You are impossible, I only tried to help you and now – ”

“Answer me!”

Dorian looked at him for a moment, almost as if he pondered a great question, before storming out of the tower. It was only at this moment when Solas realised he’d raised his voice far too much.

The realisation towered over him, and yet he could not calm his pulse; he felt a stranger into his own body, betrayed by his mind, throat and casting hands – a cage whose key had been swallowed by the jesting fate.

He paced rapidly around the desk, finally settling onto climbing the scaffolding. _No_ , he could not paint in this state of mind. He craved release from this state of mind, to leave this unwanted intensity behind.

He bent one leg at its knee, and let the other hang off the edge, allowing himself the bit of physical chaos, while his hands restlessly settled onto his stomach. His eyes shut forcefully, but, through all his efforts, he could not sleep.

***

The hallway barely had time to materialise in his dream when he proceeded forth with urgent stride.

Light flashed quickly at his vision’s periphery from beneath doors as he passed them quickly. _Nelya, Varylwin, Alassan, Liris, Dinlaselan_ , he tried to recount the names of the agents, though their doors never mattered. 

Resiliency.

He had held an impression of himself as dedicated, unyielding, focused, always able to easily resume the clear path of his goals no matter what his distractions were. For millennia, this purpose had been polished by the countless hopeful streams that he would awake in a better world, one that thrived in spite of their missing leaders. What ghouls still hung above these mere shadows of the Elvhen, grasping at a broken memory that was never theirs to remember. They never continued, never rebuilt, instead they bent their necks at the scorching altars of tyrannical despots. They needed to be retaught how to be Elvhen.

“ _It seems to me that we have found stories to share. You tell me about what you have seen in the Fade, and I can rant to you about the Dalish passiveness._ ”

They had sat on the snow, their backs leaned onto the same tree and staves neatly arranged at their feet.

He had given Mirwen an earnest chuckle. “ _An invaluable exchange. How observant of you to know that I would enjoy that._ ”

“ _Yes, it was quite hard to figure it out. Not even Leliana could have guessed it._ ”

She had been playing with her hair, braiding it loosely and immediately releasing the locks as she was finished. The Anchor would cast bright rays that seemed to interweave with her hair. Emerald, not unlike her lively eyes, nor the Breach on the firmament – he had caught himself staring.

“ _What would you like to hear?_ ”

Mirwen had turned her gaze towards Haven, her hand falling to her side, barely brushing his exposed forearm. She huffed.

_“The longest story you know._ ”

Her door. He could not even remember how he got there, he only knew that there was nothing more that he wanted than to both unroot it from his dream and drown into it.

Hypocrisy.

The lust for power and self-indulgence was what brought the Evanuris – and, subsequently, the Elvhenan – to their knees. The moment the hazy veil dissipated from his eyes, he had continuously despised and loathed his fellow leaders. And yet here he was, face to face with the colossal monument of his hedonism, tempted in such a way that he’d gotten alarmingly close to embracing it.

He felt cornered, broken, falling deeper into this wretched quagmire. He tried to claw himself out, but where once existed the adamant paws of a young wolf, there were now only the trembling nails of an old fool.

_“Solas, what’s wrong? What’s on your mind?”_ she’d asked him in a bygone moment, when he was similarly pondering his relationship with her and the Inquisition’s people.

_“Nothing worrisome, lethallan. I was simply admiring the natural beauty of the Hinterlands.”_

She hadn’t believed him, and it was even more troubling that she could recognise the slight inflexion on his features that he hadn’t even realised he had displayed.

_Run away!_

_No! – remain with them_.

The anchor in his dogma, once resolute and unrelenting, was sinking by the edges of an endless pit. The drag, the suffocation, the vehement collapse was acute and severe in his clenched fists and ragged breath. How much more must he endure for his mistakes – he thought his eyes clear and his purpose absolute in his vision, and yet he had to pry them open in this cumbersome dusk. How much further was he willing to slip – just so he could feel her closeness? And all at the cost of Elvhenan…

_“Oh, was that ice shard supposed to break the barrier? Surely you can do better than that.”_

He had scoffed with an incredulous smile. _“Excuse me? We are training, are we not? Do you seriously wish for me to channel my focus as if you were an actual enemy?”_

_“Please – we both know I’d dodge your attack just as easily as I’ve done this whole noon,”_ she had retorted with brows furrowing in jibe, closing the distance between them.

_“Have you thought that maybe I wanted you to be able to dodge?”_ he had answered tilting his head. _“Trust me, Herald, should I make a purposeful move, you would not have time to parry,”_ he had then added, the hint of a smirk escaping him.

Keeping his gaze, she had clicked her tongue over her teeth. _“Is that so? Then I shall look forward to seeing your… expertise.”_

Lunacy.

He was fooling himself – and his lips contorted in a wickedly desolate smile. It had ceased to only be about chasing the shadows of their lost empire. It was also about her. The darkness lifted for a moment, and he could see the hurt in her eyes and the distance it would put between them.

He let his forehead rest on the door, his left arm splayed across it, clutching at its frame.

No matter how understanding and open she may have been to his views, there was no denying that this was the cruel reality. He was the adversary, the anathema to her people. This was the cosmic joke that he had mantled: all his actions amounted to nothing in the end, and he had been vilified for trying to bring peace and freedom.

But could he even blame them?

_Every alternative was worse._

He could hear the heavy chant echoing and bubbling in the distance – _Harellan. Harellan. Harellan_ , accompanied by the dissonant screams of agony as the sundering from the Fade rippled through the Elvhen. The anguished wails had haunted him through uthenera, the Fade replaying them for him whenever he got too comfortable with the history he was exploring. His solace was explaining to himself that the People were now better and that they had adapted to the new life easily. They had to be able to, Elvhenan could not have crumbled this easily…

The drumming song was louder; closer, he could feel their damnation shooting arrows through him. Their presence behind stopped the echo abruptly, and the change was unnerving. _These are your people, this is where your fealty lies._

Cold, the coiling skeletal arms felt on his shoulders and oh!... how he wanted to turn around and face the only logical choice in this tormenting plight, to revel in the numbness they would give him…

But when warm the wooden door felt on his tense forehead, all he could do was plead for deliverance.

He envied the trees, the mountains and the waters – they could stand the test of time, with their purpose unchanged. He envied the Dalish, the humans, the children of the Stone – they could all turn to their divinity and seek light in their feverish condition. All he had was himself, and his river of conscience was overrun.

Through clenched teeth, hands grasping at the frame and white knuckles, he felt the ghost of pooling tears at his tightly sealed lids. 

 

_Mercy._


	18. Benighted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas decides to take a break from missions.

 

“Andaran atish’an, lethallin,” the gentle voice greeted him, and the soothing winds brushed onto his tensed shoulders. “Enfenas.”

The word’s confused trail lingered – he couldn’t tell who was more surprised at its sound. He had tried to no avail to repress his feelings, so much so that they had been shaped into a completely different anguish: he could lament his predicament, he could blame or try to reason his dilemma dissimulating bravery, when the bottom line was as clear as the streams that once cascaded from the floating gardens of Arlathan. He was afraid, like he had never been before.

Solas was always found when he needed the company most, and he was grateful that the long journey had been made just for him in his most desperate moment. He wished to submerge himself in the desperately needed wisdom, and the spirit provided mellow caresses over his numb cheeks.

“Ma halani. Mir lath din’an enan’sal’vhen.” His voice was broken, the sound shattered and without echo – barely recognisable as his own. He stood tall, his back straightened and dignified, his gaze fixed towards the hazy horizon, though tears were streaming down his cheeks without water. As he kept it in waking, his expression was neutral and impermeable.

No. Not even the Fade will see him fully brought to his knees. The last of his stability’s fragments would remain rooted deep into his soul. He looked towards the sky, where the projected image of the Black City oozed corruption from its empyrean seat.

Drip.

His open palm caught a rogue tear.

“Ar lasas abelas in hellathen. You cannot turn the course of time, lethallin. You must let the world grow by itself. Let it learn from its mistakes.”

“Ar dirthara abelas din’an’vhen.”

“Welcome love in your heart. Live for yourself and those that are alive. Are you prepared to punish yourself and wound her? Ar lasa mala revas.”

The sweet melody tugged at his heartstrings, for his entire life he had fought for collective freedom, but never for his own. The snake. The deceiver. This was all he was reduced to and all he would remain for a long time – and it may never change _for those who matter_. So many of their stories attribute the Veil to various deities, when in reality it was born from his desperation. _The one who wears a stolen crown_. A fiery tear slid down, scarring his cheek in a deep valley.

How many times had he heard this? Countless, yet never muttered by her.

“Shem’revas. Ir melana sahlin ir suledin nadas,” Solas finally managed to voice, mustering all the strength that he had remaining in his bones.

“Ma nuvenin, Fen’Harel,” Wisdom whispered kindly. Although the title was only meant to acknowledge his chosen path and not to mockingly twist knives in his fate, Solas breathed it in as if it was the missing piece to let life flow in his burdened arteries. “Malas amelin ne halam.” 

***

_Keep your distance._

It is easier said than done, especially when one finds himself in a major hub within the stronghold. While the location of his dwellings was meant to find strength in its glass cage, it also meant he was unable to find refuge in the face of the steadfast storm that she was.

He was thankful that she was respectful of his work, no matter how it materialised; he could feel her disappointed but understanding gaze when he would conduct the research he had been assigned by the rebel mages or when he would analyse the Tevinter shard he was allowed to keep; he could see in the corner of his eye her fugitively defeated expression, which would often deftly shift into a faint smile, whenever she would stumble upon his painting sessions.

Today, though, some plans were made for Halamshiral, and Mirwen was asking for advice from the two mages known for their attendances to high society balls. There had been no invitations sent to the Inquisition as of yet, at least to his knowledge, though preparations were being made in advance during these rare moments in which the leader had a moment of respite in her stronghold.  

Solas found himself idly twirling the petals of a flower between his fingers. As always, the two vases in the rotunda had been refreshed by invisible hands. Ironically, the plants were meant to help with concentration, yet he could find none outside of eavesdropping on the discussions above. The uneven melange of voices made it difficult to hear the one he truly sought.

He could have been there, giving advice. Orlais and the other empires of man were insignificant compared to the gargantuan sovereignty of Elvhenan, and its mind dances would have been formidable adversaries to the Orlesian Game.

A petal was plucked between his fingers, fluidly swirled between his index and his thumb. He sank his cheek further into his propped hand.

Would the Fade be satisfactory to cite as a teacher? He would need to tone down countless years of experience to maintain his unassuming credibility.

_It would only be for her own good_ , he convinced himself with a fleeting frown.

Sighing, he left his chair and paced around the desk.

There were many plans of his own that awaited to be conceived, and yet he struggled to remember all the details he knew about Briala and her cause – this was a dangerous state of mind to be in for any type of strategy. It was reckless, sloppy, _green_.

Light footsteps were quickly making their way downstairs and he suddenly realised he could not hear neither Dorian nor Vivienne anymore. Which meant that only…

“Solas, would you like to join us for an… urgent mission in the Hinterlands? Varric asked for this personally,” Mirwen’s soft voice stopped his stride.

“I will have to excuse myself from this mission, Inquisitor,” he began carefully. “I still have much research on the Fade to conduct.”

“We are going to visit an abandoned thaig. We could camp there, at least long enough for you to explore some of its history…” 

Suppressing a smile could not have been harder.

“I appreciate the offer, but I am not sure I would be of much assistance. May I suggest the Wardens? Surely Blackwall and Alistair would be better choices should you encounter darkspawn. Wouldn’t Varric also prefer having the Champion with him?”

“Varric didn’t want to involve Aidan in this. I didn’t ask any further questions… I will ask Blackwall and Alistair then.” Mirwen lingered, and Solas could sense that she weighed a question. “Good luck with your studies,” she finally settled.

He gave her a short nod and resumed his walk towards the mural, feigning intense pondering over the painting’s next details.

*** 

He descended the mains stairs towards the courtyard; the Inquisition was just as busy today as it always was, with soldiers training, doctors running, and scouts roaming. Between the important tasks of some and the much-needed respite of others, he might as well have been invisible.

Not that he could complain. There was a different distraction that he needed now.

It has been weeks – _Months?_ – since he had last entered a tavern; the Diamondback games he used to play with Blackwall in Haven had been long left behind, now barely a scratch on his memory. Despite that his mission had always been cloaked by heavy smog, those were indeed simpler times, when his priority was to integrate with the Inquisition.

He had enjoyed it. Acceptance was something that he involuntarily welcomed.

“One Mackay’s Single Malt,” he said flatly and tried to ignore the wary look on the bartender’s face.

He grabbed his tankard and moved towards the empty table by the wall. There were more familiar faces than he would have preferred, though he appreciated that they did him the service of ignoring him. Briefly catching the scrutinizing eyes of the Qunari spy, he was greeted with a silent and almost imperceptible nod. Solas brought the tankard to his mouth and raised his index in acknowledgement as he took a sip.

The dim light of the room, combined with the feverish conversations that surrounded him, surprisingly helped alleviate his heightened pulse. The drink, though, remained just an insignificant excuse to be there and shut down his incessant worrying.

Tracing the fine lines in the table’s grain, he emptied his mind of thoughts and internalised the outside noise. Breathe. No dusk shall reach him here.

“Mind if I take this seat?” his meditation was broken by the intruder’s voice.

Aidan didn’t wait for his response and simply slid his own tankard along the table and into his open palm as he sat on the opposite side. Leaning back onto the wall, he seemed to be preoccupied with observing the other patrons.

_Just what I needed._

“I am surprised you are not with your friends,” Solas finally broke the silence that stretched into the awkward.

“Merrill’s with Varric. ‘Think they’re going to the Hinterlands or something. You must’ve seen Fenris training in the courtyard. Anders is safe. Not much I can do for him when he’s asleep,” Aidan responded, taking a hearty gulp of his ale. “And thank the Maker that he is,” he added with an empty gaze.

“What are your plans now, Champion of Kirkwall?” Solas asked, accentuating the title.

Hawke chuckled signalling his awareness of the intended slight.

“I’ll stick around. The pay’s good and I could get used to lounging under the sun without having to run around and fix others’ problems.”

Solas frowned and took another sip. Just when he thought that the man could have woken up and be ready to rise to the occasion, Aidan managed to take him several steps back with his selfish plans, voiced in the most casual tone. How infuriating it could be to see him not learn anything from the consequences of his actions and just resort to leading an egotistical life through more means than one. His resentful companions were more than a glowing testament of his mistakes, yet he did nothing to reach redemption outside his greedy actions.

He watched as the other man emptied his tankard and ordered another.

“So, what can you tell me about our Inquisitor?” Aidan asked, settling back into his seat, propping his head onto his fist.

“She is a very capable leader.”

Hawke groaned and took another long swig. “You’ve got to give me more than that,” he finally said, punctuating with a cough.

“I have given you exactly what is needed.”

“You’re close. Something must’ve brought her to being in charge. You can’t tell me that you don’t know more about her than this formal crap.”

“I am afraid I do not know any. I do not pay attention to such things.”

He knew of no such things. Not that she prefers green “ _like the forest – it means abundance, safety, the start of a journey and its ending_ ”, and that she finds solace in red, for it is “ _a haven, home, where the aravels have paused their endless sailing_ ”. Nor that she likes the feel of everknit wool – “ _reminds me of Bae’s coat. He’d give it to me to bundle up when we went out to hunt and I’d get cold when we would sit and wait for the boars to show. Fair warning: you might not get yours back too soon, I hope you don’t mind_ ” – or that her eyes would light up in delight when she would find a summer stone ore vein – “ _it was Mae’s_ _favourite. Bae’s nickname for her was Elgara, because her warrior armour would always manage to catch its rays, no matter how stray they were._ ”

He knew not that she would take great pleasure at seeing his nose scrunch up in annoyance at her mispronunciations of Elvhen words, and would continue her joyous singing of Dalish hymns, peppering her renditions with light-hearted taunts – “ _you’ll have to sing louder than me if you want me to care about your Fade corrections!_ ”. He could not possibly know that she blamed herself with teary eyes for being the first in her family to show magical aptitudes, wishing she “ _could have been_ _a hunter. That way Aenor would not have been sent away_ ”, and neither that she would avert her gaze when he would tell her about the Dalish hospitality – or the lack thereof _–_ that was bestowed upon him in his attempted interactions. He also wouldn’t be acquainted with the restraint of further disclosing just how painful and destructive those visits had been.

His hand briefly froze in mid-air as he was bringing his drink towards his lips. His eyes slid off the curved outline of the tankard.

He knew of no such things.

“Why are you still here? You have been drunk more often than not since we have arrived back in Skyhold and you seem to have no regards to the Inquisition’s issues outside of personal gain.”

Hawke collapsed into himself with a desolate laugh, and Solas suddenly felt pity at the sight of the other man’s heavy shoulders and slumped head within a stiff palm.  

“Funny you should ask that," he finally managed to mutter, averting his eyes. "Because my bastard conscience won’t drown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enfenas. - You fear.  
> Ma halani. - Help me.  
> Mir lath din’an enan’sal’vhen. - My love will bring the end to the People.  
> Ar lasas abelas in hellathen. - You will be granted sorrow in your noble struggle.  
> Ar dirthara abelas din’an’vhen. - I learned sorrow from the death of the People.  
> Ar lasa mala revas. - I give you your freedom.  
> Shem’revas. - Short freedom.  
> Ir melana sahlin ir suledin nadas - My time has come to endure.  
> Ma nuvenin, Fen’Harel. - As you say, Fen’Harel.  
> Malas amelin ne halam. - I hope you find a new name.  
> Elgara - sun
> 
> Translations pieced together from the phrases/ words we were given in the games.


	19. The Godhead: Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas recounts the beginning of a particular story from before he was an Evanuris.

"This collection is simply splendid. So many tomes from so many different eras. You must be pleased with so much tangible history at your fingertips."

Finding himself in his favourite library under the main hall had managed to temporarily ease his troubled mind. He wondered exactly how much this had been Cole's doing, suggesting the Seeker that he should help catalogue the multitude of books found within. As much as it displeased Solas to be forced into smalltalk with the First Enchanter, it was still a very welcome change of pace for which he would have to thank Compassion.

"Not any more than finding its scattered fragments in the Fade. Though it is impressive that the books have remained in such an exceptional condition."

"They could prove invaluable to the Circles," Vivienne added, dusting the dark leather binding of a tome she had just picked. "6:45 Steel. Unnamed."

Solas leaned over the desk and scribbled the year on the parchment, carefully closing and balancing his own picked book in his right hand.

"Already planning on pillaging the library for your Circle, Enchanter? There are plenty of rebel mages who could just as well benefit from these."

"Don't be absurd, my dear. They will not remain rebels for too long after the magister's defeat."

He channeled his cutting question into a slightly more weighted turn of page. _By their own accord, or by the Templars' smite?_

"I am surprised you did not join the Inquisitor into the dwarven ruin. I would have thought it might have been of interest to you."

"There are greater issues at hand than lingering in the Hinterlands. I doubt there would have been anything to aid in our cause," Solas replied flatly.

"A most sensible answer," Vivienne answered. Her subtly intended surprise did not manage to garner a reaction from him.

What she did not know was that, aside from his active efforts of keeping his distance from Mirwen, he was also avoiding thaigs as much as he was able to. Although desperately aching to learn more about the dwarves and their disconnect from the Fade, he was not ready for the truths the ancient ruins would reveal to him.

And he was not ready to catch a possible glimpse of himself within the memories of the Fade either, for every story would trace back to the same beginning…

 

There was never a need to pull on a hart’s reins whenever one wanted to slow their pace, and now it was no different. Intelligent creatures they are, though Tarasyl'nin was truly exceptional even by their already high standards. It was likewise terribly wrong to place a saddle upon his back and adorn him with any restraints – or, with the ceremonial beads along his horns, for that matter –, but the ostentatious diplomatic general's armour would have been just as uncomfortable against his wild bones as it was over Solas’s shoulders.

His emerald cloak settled, and hung in what he could only imagine as an awkward sight over Taras’s side as the hart’s gallop slowed. Solas hummed displeased and gathered a corner in his lap, letting it drape as it was supposed to over his left arm and arch towards his forearm, in a loose envelop under and around his golden pauldron. A ridiculous conundrum to find oneself in, especially when one does not entirely loathe the opulence this appearance gave them – only the practicality of it.

Though it is even more ridiculous when the armour fit for the diplomatic affairs of a king was reduced to a measly delegation garment of a general.

“Ely garem,” Solas ran his fingers through the hart’s coarse dark fur, the golden plates catching the sunlight.

The large sumptuous ogee of the first gate peeked through the dense foliage of the forest, its protective glyphs radiating with such raw power that they almost seemed to rupture themselves from the massive wooden door in hazy shapes. He instinctively glanced to the three lieutenants on either side of him, to check if they all still wore their dispelling bracelets – and so they did, the simple bands sat snugly around their wrists, concealing the layer of chainmail beneath their armours’ seams. He involuntarily threw a ghostly grin to Taren at the sight of his wolf head-emblazoned pauldron, neatly framed by the elvhen's long cherry braid. It was good to be allowed at least one of his men on these boring housekeeping missions and, truthfully, he had only needed the other’s expertise in Dirth'ena Ena'sal'in – he could have done without the unshakeable feeling of being watched and criticised that the other two ghi'myelanen  gave him. Who, really, had only been sent to solidify the ruling couple’s grasp on the mission even though Solas had been sent to the other kingdoms as a blasted hound for more times than he could count – at this point, it was a given that he operated under their instructions.

He opened his mouth intending to lazily ask Geal’s hunter to open the gates, but he stopped himself just as the words were about to roll off his tongue. ‘ _Rajelan, you have the honours._ ’ ‘ _Rajelan, we are sworn to follow you._ ’ ‘ _Rajelan, we cannot think for ourselves. If you don’t show us how to piss then how will we know how to do it?_ ’ his inner voice mocked them in lamenting tone as his eyes rolled irritatingly. Was some initiative too much to ask for within the ranks of such high soldiers?! Or did they think he actually gave a damn to advance any of them? That would definitely explain their unnecessary flattery towards him – all just a bunch of sycophants, the Void take them! 

Solas unclasped the short staff from the saddle and looked above, searching for a good patch in the trees’ crowns to channel the most of the sun’s energy. As they were rapidly approaching the gate, he brought two fingers towards the gathering light and drew a single thin thread from it. Whispering a crystalline harmony, the happily pulsating filament coiled energetically around his wrist, moving upwards in waves until it enveloped his whole left hand in a thin layer of amber shades – together with the dispel band, it made for the coveted key.

The gate began to open, revealing the first circle of Sou’nin and Geal’s kingdom; this ring was meant to serve as the primary lines of defence and, as such, was buzzing with soldiers patrolling between towers, as well as archers vigilantly scouring the distance from their places upon the astonishingly tall walls.

As his group was greeted by solemn salutes as was the protocol, Solas could not help but feel a detached jealousy in this sea of foreign heraldry. So many preparations for imaginary wars, so many mouths to feed and personnel to upkeep – and they were still oblivious at their incredible luck for abundance while other kingdoms starved in the wake of natural misfortune.

He held his head high, though he made a point to look each soldier that lined their entrance in the eye, even through his lack of a short nod.

From behind the colossal azure banners of the Dragon and the Sun, signs of even more expansion dotted the outside wall of the second ring, with shabby homes that he could expect to see at this periphery.

Solas idly drew another thread, this time only humming the melody in low voice, and the glove changed shape again by receiving a slightly more angular aspect. The second gate began to open before them – he caught the groan that almost slipped him, thinking that so many more doors are left to cross.

This ring housed the poorest region of the kingdom, yet he could now tell that it most definitely would have not passed as impoverished anywhere else. The monarchs knew this – the appearances were played to the highest degree much to the delight of Geal, who most definitely orchestrated for bizarrely elegant buildings to be placed so close to the main roads. The game of politics and dissimulation was his absolute strength and it showed – Solas had almost been filled with the heaviest feeling of dread the moment he had walked the cobbled path for the first time. It didn’t take him long, however, to understand Geal’s design when he had ventured further into the ring in-between the arched gates: the buildings were almost done in a perverse gradient of opulence to poverty and back to luxury, though these lavish homes were empty and dilapidated where the windows’ angle would not reveal the reality inside.

He might have scrunched his nose in disgust if numbness hadn’t already settled in after so many months of traversing this same commute over and over again. While… Taren seemed just as affected as always: he left out a vexed grunt, loud enough for Solas to hear but not their other companions – he gave the ena'sal'in'amelan grim smile which he hoped would ease the underlying worry which they both shared: ‘ _I won’t let this happen to our people._ ’

The third unravelled thread changed the glove even further, materializing spiked scales over his knuckles. It was beginning to look massive when combined with the armour beneath, while the supposed weight was not quite as deceitful as one might have thought: the heaviness was somehow akin to rays intrusively poking at sluggish lids.

The corresponding arched gate opened, and gave way to bustling markets, whose liveliness was in complete antithesis to the previous ring’s charade. The people had not been instructed to avert themselves from the main road, although guards were still watchful of keeping them away from their delegation’s path. It was still not quite close to the richer rings, but the abundance of colour – both in the people’s outfits and the buntings splayed across balconies in the distance –, blended with the merry voices that amalgamated and bounced off from seemingly every curvature of the wall painted a different facet of wealth. One that Solas could only hope to hear was present in his drought-ridden kingdom.

“Rajelan. Do you think the supplies have crossed the border?” Taren murmured, while probably eyeing the fresh fish stall, luckily this time remembering to address him by his title on these foreign lands.

“Sou’nin has always kept her promises,” Solas responded flatly, maintaining his proud posture and gaze towards the distant gate. 

Another thread continued to mould his hand until the hint of claw-like nails adorned his fingers; they were only halfway through the kingdom, and the rings began to outstretch on longer distances. This was the workshop quarter of the fourth circle, which filled the air with the unmistakable scent of iron solder and the sweetness of freshly-carved sylvanwood. Apprentices were moving with hasty feet, carrying what Solas could only assume was custom pieces made by their masters for the soldiers in the first circle – the reverency with which they held the items and sheer weave they had wrapped it in denoted the great pride that had been poured into the craft.

His distraction came in the form of a particularly beautiful collection of staves boastfully displayed in the shopfront of a blacksmith, the wright herself sipping on her beverage at the entrance whilst enjoying the good weather. Although it was rather concealed from the main path, the angle in which he found himself in had let the etchings in the weapons' austere ironbark  shine through the sea of minimalist lightened sylvanwood armaments. Taras must have felt his gaze linger, as he slowed his pace – Solas gently brushed an idle hand over the hart's neck in gratitude. 

The sharp scoff of a hunter shot at the side of his vision. "Is this all they can craft? These can barely be called weapons.

"They are no match for what Rajelan has commissioned for us," the second hunter added smugly.

Solas turned around, pinpointing the elvhen's scarred features, fighting through the stray raven strands to find the equally as dark eyes.

"Borean, place an order with the blacksmith at the end of that alley," he instructed, pointing with a head tilt. "Ask for a staff as the ones she has displayed. Tell her to leave it blank."

"Blank, Rajelan?" the hunter asked incredulous. "Ah, of course, fantastic choice, the barrack's blacksmith could fit a training fire core for this crude..."

He tutted. "My, my, you have not learned much about your Commander, have you? Yes, blank, to let all the energies meld together rather than be constricted by the staff's core."

Borean flushed in deep red and mumbled an 'Understood, Rajelan' before swiftly steering his hart towards the blacksmith. Solas's patience was wearing thin with these rank-climbers, and he would take every opportunity they gave him to remind them that he knew their flattery to be banally empty.

For the fifth ring, the glove was starting to positively resemble the strong shape of a dragon's claw, though still two steps away from the full metamorphosis. 

Taras instinctively steered away from the forming crowd and towards the barracks, which were inconveniently shielded by the large stage of a nomad theater. The building was architecturally uniform with the rest of the circle and distinctly different from its predecessors, with tall doors and tall windows, their frames delicately encased in swirling gold. The towers were devoid of any elaborate roof – he knew domes to be a detail reserved for the noble and royal rings.

"Dismissed," he nonchalantly threw the word to the remaining hunter as they were approaching the stables. 

The only things he truly wished for now was to discard the cumbersome armour, and to finish that half-full wine bottle that he kept in his office before the – he winced – king and queen would send for him.

The horsemaster gently greeted Tarasyl'nin by brushing one of her palms over the hart's nose, already reaching for the ceremonial beads strung over his horns with the other. Taren dismantled, and Solas was already turning his back upon the stable by the time his own hart was probably handed over.

"Our envoy has arrived. I saw Anise's hart sleeping on the hay," Taren informed, catching up with him.

"Good, I was famished for more bad news," Solas responded, removing the tie that kept his braids bundled.

"You truly believe she would bring words of trouble?"

Solas looked over his shoulder at the other elvhen, straightening his back with a bitter chuckle.

"She was not expected until over a fortnight from now, when the new supplies would have reached the capital and would have been distributed to our people. I doubt she is here to admire the kingdom we are vassal to. Or maybe she just could not wait to see her king selling himself as a hound for hire. It could go either way," he punctuated with a derisive shrug.

Taren pursed his lips and was wise enough to not respond with anything else. They continued in silence or, as much silence one could have when the armour's clink echoes in cacophony; the rigid greetings that they would hear walking down the hallways only made Solas want to hasten his stride. The other elvhen left with a curtly farewell as they were reaching the general's office.

He pressed the door's handle, and he could already feel the familiar aura that all his people carried.

Anise was standing in front of the window, donning the wolf head-emblazoned scout's armour; it was unmistakably her: the aura, the tall figure, her distinctly blond hair which was gathered in a neatly braided bun. Although he feared the news she would divulge, it was good to see people from his own ranks.

“Any news from home?” he asked, and the lack of preamble startled the scout.

“Rahmahel," she greeted quickly, bringing her fist towards her heart. "The drought still lingers, and the old supplies are dwindling fast. The morale is low, but luckily there is no need for much publicity for your efforts here. The people are grateful for everything you’ve managed to send so far.”

Solas smiled sorrowfully and moved towards the mannequin which he kept behind his desk. He began unfastening his emerald half-cloak. 

“And Dalinev? How is the viceroy managing?”

“That…" Anise paused, as if weighing her own words. "That is why I have been sent before my scheduled summoning, Rajmahel. The noble families are losing faith in his capabilities. They want to overthrow him.”

“Of course, they do…” he answered with a whisper. "Of-fucking-course they do!" his voice a continuous crescendo, culminating in an electric discharge into the wall through the contact with his fist.

Anise kept her silence; if she gasped, if she flinched, he would have not noticed. 

“Can no-one follow damn simple orders without inserting their blasted selves where they don’t belong?! A dagger struck in the shadows! Of course, why did I not think of that! Kill Dalinev! Grains will just start flowing through the streets even before the rains had fallen, which, when they do, would be plentiful and single-handedly give food for a million years!”

"We have already foiled one of their plans and thrown in chains the ones we had uncovered at the orders of the viceroy. Should we take further action?"

_What is the point, there will always be a greater storm waiting to ravage the previous' survivors,_ the tart thought demystified in his mind. 

"Follow Dalinev's judgement. He was put in place for a reason," he finally managed to tiredly answer, sagged by the unshakeable sensation of defeat.

His eager fingers' journey to the wine bottle had been cut by the sharp knock on the door. He hissed almost imperceptibly and, after pondering his options, took a large gulp. He would undoubtedly need it either way, as this was probably his cue to meet the ruling couple. Solas grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulder, unbothered by the need to refasten it. After all, it was not for the aesthetic, but for the defiant wear of his royal heraldry.

"Yes, you may speak," he told the expectant elvhen on the other side of the door, not before taking another hefty swig.

“Rajelan. Ha’raj Geal has sent for you.”

***

It never ceased to amaze him.

Architecturally, the palace was incredibly similar to his own castle. Expansions had been done, certainly, to fit the ever-growing aspect of their kingdom, but it still had been made in a time when resources had been scarce and designs were crude. Which made it even more surprising that light seemed to permeate the golden domes and colourful tall windows. Even the verdant giant tiles on the ground almost had a glow from within that spread across the narrow hallways – the only artefact which betrayed the bygone era of the palace's birth.

The arches of the seven rings of the kingdom were said to mirror those that dotted the royal quarters, yet even in their colossal nature they were never able to replicate the sumptuous abandon their much shorter cousins instilled in Solas's soul.

He tugged at the loose chords of his cloak, suddenly acutely aware of its improper state.

The war room.

He took a deep breath with closed eyes, feeling reduced to nothing more than a wayward child facing his stern parents.

He wearily pushed down the handle and attempted to move with confident stride into the bright room.

“Well, well, well…" the familiar deep voice began in cold tone. "Da Fenlin ysi vegarem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ely garem. - [We] have arrived.  
> Ghi'myelanen - hunters  
> Ena'sal'in'amelan - Knight Enchanter  
> Rahmahel - leader in the far and ahead greens, used as a term for 'Your Majesty'  
> Ha’raj - king  
> Da Fenlin ysi vegarem. The Young Wolf has returned.
> 
> Geal - Terror (Elgar'nan)  
> Sou’nin - Wrath (Mythal); this was supposed to be Vengeance, but I couldn't find any Elvhen translation for it >.<  
> Isa - Hunger (Andruil)
> 
> Translations done with the help of Fenxshiral's works.
> 
> * edited 04-09-19 to add translations for all the Evanuris' names so far


	20. The Godhead: Conquest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas has a friendly discussion with Geal and Sou'nin, as well as tries to shake off the accumulated stress.

The King Who Bathed in Fire and Lighting, First-Born of the Sun.

The chosen epithets were a mouthful and did nothing more than swell his already bursting egomania, though as the rays were ensnared by the blond net of his meticulously straightened mane, Solas could see the fabled halo that radiated and engulfed the crown of his head. The translucent cloak he wore over the intricately woven leather armour caught ablaze in its amber folds, giving him a menacingly statuesque presence.

It was a trick Solas knew well; to anyone else, this almost perfect portrait would depict a proud and stoic king, surprised in the act of benevolently gazing upon his subjects from the window of his war room nonetheless, pondering the well-being of his idealistically formulated kingdom. To Solas, this was the image of a perfectly-calculated encounter: standing in front of the tall window overlooking the royal ring – ‘ _remember where you are_ ’, the angle of the sun giving him his impalpable crown – ‘ _remember who you serve now_ ’, the almost concealed small handle of a golden dagger under the pleats of his mantle within easy reach for his bony fingers – ‘ _remember whose trust you have not earned_ ’.

As he was – _Temporarily_ , he added to himself quickly – considered a general, it was customary that a short bow should be made before his king, and that he should give a summary of his diplomatic mission to Brithavathe now that he had been acknowledged.

Geal was a damn fool if he was still expecting him to bend to such formalities.

“I trust that Brithavathe has finally come to his senses and dropped his…” the word was dragged by a nonchalant sigh “… terribly imprudent intimidations.”

The other man leisurely circled the large table filled with maps before settling on an ornate chair at the far end. He strategically brushed the back of his hand on the golden supple hilt of his ethereal sword. Solas did not make the mistake of breaking their eye contact.

“He has been dealt with,” he began, ungluing himself from the close nearness to the doorframe. “I imagine it was hard for him not to drop them, when your hunters poisoned half of his personal guard. Though I would have liked to have been informed that this was how they would behave.”

“Would it have made any difference to you?”

Solas settled by the edge of the table, leaning onto it cross-armed, making sure the heraldry on his emerald cloak was defiantly visible.

He avoided a concrete answer with a shrug. “It would have been nice to know. I would have prepared a better discourse for him this way.”

A humourless chuckle tore from Geal, as brittle as his bronze eyes. “It is all the same to you, is it not? I knew that you had it in you the moment you had pitted Isa and Telenathe against each other to get that plot of forest land for yourself. So pliable you had made them, they had never seen you coming. You may have fooled the others into seeing illiteracy in your schemes…”

“…but not the First of the Sun? So tiring it must be to seek the light in every one of us’ shadows.”

“Not so much when those shadows lessen each day.”

This was the sharp dance Solas had grown accustomed to performing on the strained thread that stretched between himself and the one leader who, above all, desired expansion. It was as if he had picked up the armour and the sword hilt one day and never intended to let them rest even under a canopy of peace and prosperity.  

“Tell me, how did Brithavathe let you walk freely after watching his guardsmen collapse before his eyes?”

“He had seen the very graphic omen your poison left on the side of their necks. The red lightning is unmistakeable.” Solas shifted to pick up a small map of the Lowlands, and felt his loose braids slide over his clean-shaven sides. “He had then, quite visibly may I add, settled his eyes again on the different heraldry that the soldiers were wearing. As the only possible attackers’ armour was brazenly marked by the Sun but also in my command, the only thing he could do was respect the pact between our kingdoms and let me leave unscathed. Ingenious, this little plan of yours, but I will not endanger my people’s safety in the future. You can carry these stratagems yourself.”

“Little details, but if I recall correctly, you have offered yourself as a vassal to Sou’nin and my kingdom in exchange for food, and one of the clauses of our acceptance was that you join our military.” Geal flicked his fingers and fiery shards flickered between them. “Does the Sun concern himself with the affairs of those who prefer to operate shrouded in shades? No. He has his rays, the eyes and limbs of his devoted, to bring those into light. And so, will his First-Born follow into his footsteps.”

The weight placed on the mention of the ‘devoted’ did not escape Solas.

“You may consider me as part of your army, but I am devoted to none but my own people,” he retorted with a snarl, before redressing himself with a faint sigh; he could not give the other man the satisfaction of drawing more such emotions from him. “I cannot lead chaos – soldiers that will act on orders I had not been aware of… and I will not accept unnecessary bloodshed.” 

“Let’s play a game, Fenlin. Tell me why you think placing more value on the lives of a dozen men that had already pledged themselves to live and die for their king would be better than snuffing a war in its cradle.”

Their eyes met once again, and the air shifted under the unseen scorch that their magic tied them with.

“Take a few toys away from a petulant child and the action will stop the tantrum,” Geal finally finished.

“I do wonder if you will ever tire of such discourse, ma’lath,” the velvety voice announced Sou’nin’s presence before the ethereally flowy gown’s trims could settle on the ground under her soft and purposeful stride.

She was dripping in jewellery, as she had always been. She held no brief for staves nor for the other auxiliary weapons, but her preference for the channelling jewelled collars, bracers and cascading beads was unambiguously evident.

Solas stood upright and gave her a short nod as the side door finally closed shut with a creaked thud.  

“Solas,” Sou’nin responded likewise, and the pearl strings in her hair fluttered around the raven braids neatly framing her sun-kissed carved cheeks. “It is good to see you back in one piece.”

“He was never in danger,” Geal's mellow response came quickly, and he leaned onto the armrest giving Solas a cold smirk. _Not more danger than I would be in here? You sly bastard._

“Never in danger, yes?” Sou’nin asked with honeyed voice, her fingers gliding over the outline of Geal’s collarbone as she paced past him. “Protected by the great power that radiates from within. Flanked by three soldiers, one moving with the lurid notes of the wolf’s howl, two dripping the bolt’s scourge from crooked claws. All of them chosen by astute tacticians so painstakingly to the most minute details up to the seams of their collars.”

It was hard to not feel pride when praises were given with such honest gentleness, and Solas caught himself grinning, mirroring the other man. They may have had differences in approaches, but they had in fact carried a devious yet highly effective message to the Southern king.

“I recall some… long-forgotten stories,” she continued, before breaking into a soft chuckle. “Please, humour me, lethallinen. Help me revoke those leaders of old who thought themselves above of their equals, their generals, their soldiers and their people. Those who may have gazed into the daunting eyes of menace and thought that they were at the top of the pyramid. Untouchable. I wonder what had happened to those… it seems like they are now only eerie echoes. But do tell me about your spared thoughts on this non-existent danger.”

Their smiles were nothing more than blisters of shameful realisation.

“There are not nearly enough kings and queens that do not act like buffoons. Try not to end up the same.”

The two elvhen watched her stalk them silently, before settling in-between their line of vision. She picked up a map of her kingdom’s North-Eastern borders – unmistakeable, for the abundance of forests and the azure lines of the ocean.

“Now that this is out of the way, I have come to invite you to accompany me to the new construction site,” Sou’nin broke the silence, handing him the map. “The underground tunnels are starting to look decent enough for decorations to be put in place. I have seen your sketches. You absolutely need to confer with the architects.”

“And I suppose acting as your personal guard in the process is just an unexpected benefit.”

“Of course, Da Fen. So delightfully unanticipated. I shall send for you when we are ready to depart.”

Solas pondered the map, as if weighting its parchment and muted colours. His eyes followed the natural borders, gliding over the flowery handwriting over each section – not assimilating the words, merely distracting himself with the thin strokes.

“Have the supplies left?”

“On the first turning of the Evunenes bright face. As they always do.”

His shoulders momentarily relaxed and his fingers involuntarily searched the edge of his cape – he finally faced the two elvhen again.

“Then if we are done, I shall take my leave.”

***

The third ring: much more genuine than the fourth, and devoid of the reasons for the bizarre simulacrum the second seemingly needed. Fervent, bubbling with life, with a true happiness unmatched by the seventh nor the sixth. Careless, content with their ways, fingers unmarked by the callouses that smithing and tailoring brought upon the fifth. Ardent and passionate, not unlike the first.

Certainly not like the first, though their unofficial battle was lost even before it began – and a flaming pulse ran through his spine. It was tough to compete with the glorious arousal that a vhenasalathe would bring its visitors.

“We thought you were never going to return to us, Fenor’Fen.”

Solas revelled in the trill of her voice and trailed a knuckle over her back, propping himself up to kiss her shoulder.

“I had been retained by some unimportant matters,” he murmured over her skin, squeezing his eyes shut as his member was engulfed again by another. Nails dug – a smirk of approval, a gasp of appreciation.

“Do you not want to have someone wait for you in your kingdom though, Fenor’Fen?” the lust spirit closed the gap between, brushing its immaterial fingers over his chest.

"And risk missing out on the freedom to visit you lovely ladies? I couldn't have that happen, could I?"

The burning gaildahlas incense filled his nostrils, the thick smoke drawing hazy patterns on the rosy sheer curtains that decorated the room, almost melding with the sounds of pleasure emanating from the other chambers. He let his head fall back into the lush pillows – a twitch. Shivers shot through him and he grasped at the robe beneath him.

Waving new magic into creation, wine, indulgence, debauchery, hedonism… it was inevitable that he should always return to this state between reality and the surreal. _No better way to shake the burden_ – and why shouldn’t he? – _All can wait…_ he groaned breathlessly.

The angry voices sparring outside almost missed him.

He propped himself back up with a low moan – eyes fixated on the elvhen knelt before him – in anticipation of the door flung open. As if on a cue, two officers made their way through the delicate drapes, closely followed by another general – _What was his name…_

“This room is occupied, Rajelan,” Solas greeted the group with a mirthless grin.

“Wipe that arrogant sneer off your mug,” the general retorted, weighing each of his words. “This may be how it’s done in the West, but here we don’t cavort while on duty.”

Solas masked another moan with a hum and stopped the reason with a gentle hand laid on the woman’s shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”

“Sou’nin sent word. You are to leave at sundown.”

“And she sent you to deliver this message? Were your men… more likely to succumb to the ways of the West?”

“No. I wanted to see the obedience burned into your face when she calls, and you answer so eagerly.”

He took his time gathering the corners of his robe over his bare body, tightly tying it at his middle, yet letting it all fall loosely over his hips. Languidly, he descended from the neatly arranged pillows, throwing his legs towards the group. With wrists crossed at the small of his back, a small spark idly formed between rolling fingers.

Their similar heights made it easy for Solas to comfortably lock eyes with the other general. Even through eyes dark as the shades, the light of his intentions was glaring.

“I do no such things,” he replied simply with a foolish arch of his brows.

The general scoffed. “You are nothing more than Sou’nin’s lapdog. She whistles and you wag your gullible tail.”

_Go on, go on_ , Solas thought to himself, rolling the spark into a small fiery pebble.

“Geal tried to make a disciplined warrior out of you and you just return to your chaotic ways.”

_Come on, I had already gotten rid of all my anger._

“Your company snickers behind your back. You cannot even demand the respect of being told the higher orders of your soldiers.”

_I do not have all day to spare. More encouragement, faster._ The pebble had morphed into a sphere, and its scorching feathers brushed his bare back.

“But that is not even your greatest failure.” His breath slowed. “For all that boasting of your ruling ways, you could not even manage to keep your kingdom free and prospe-”

The end of the sentence remained suspended somewhere above them; the fireball rolled from the raised planes of his palm, breathing its molten core onto the short hair of the general, singing his eyebrows in the process. The soldiers lunged towards him, falling into the sundering waves sent from his lifting arms. Ensnared, caught in the uncertain slime of the slowing elements – he snapped his arms downwards and they fell with a loud thud. Their commander reached for his Ena'sal'in'amelan hilt – green smoke pushed it from between his fingers.

The other man’s heavy huff was the only sound that drummed the stretching silence.

“You have been announced. My job here is done.”

Solas trailed his gaze over the grumbling group’s abrupt exit. _Just a few more months,_ he tried to convince himself, as he’d done over countless others, that the rains will finally fall at the turn of the new season.

Turning around, he quickly checked the light peering through the narrow window – almost, but not quite close to sundown.

“Now, where were we?” he asked with a sly raise of his brow, kneeling before the slightly confused woman that still had remained at the edge of the pillowy bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brithavathe - Envy (Falon’Din)  
> Telenathe - Sloth (Ghilan’nain)  
> Geal - Terror (Elgar'nan)  
> Sou'nin - Wrath (Mythal)  
> Isa - Hunger (Andruil)
> 
> Da Fen - Young Wolf  
> Fenlin - Little Wolf  
> Evunenes - Moons’  
> vhenasalathe - house of lust  
> Fenor’Fen - Dear Wolf  
> gaildahlas - embrium
> 
> Translations done with the help of Fenxshiral's works.
> 
> * edited 04-09-19 to add translations for all the Evanuris' names so far


	21. The Godhead: Creation I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas joins the expedition towards the construction site.

“I believe you will be most impressed with the underground constructions,” Sou’nin turned to him with a delighted smile, barely holding the reins of her hart. “If everything is going accordingly to the plan with this new underground mansion, we will be able to extend the project to work on an exact replica of Enansalan right underneath it, sharing a common base.”

“An ambitious plan. I gather that Geal is bored with the land expansion.”

Solas tangled his fingers into Taras’s fur absentmindedly, gently scratching and brushing the side of his neck. 

“He is not the only one. There are only so many ways to build layered gardens and golden turrets, and the Royal Ring is full of both. We either need a reform in architecture, or… we can simply build downwards.”

His throat reverberated with a low laugh. “Sou’nin… I have always said you were looking for new heights. It seems like I got the direction wrong.”

She returned his chuckle, its velvet notes accentuated by the clinking beads along her shoulders as her hart jumped over a branch. “Now, let’s not celebrate before it has been finished. We might still need to figure out new designs for those dull walls.”

“Speaking of dull, are you not worried about Geal’s political affairs?” Sou’nin interrupted him with a playful slap on his arm, though the act did nothing but accentuate his worry. “The lack of wars is making him a bit… agitated. He did not even give me a chance to resolve the issue peacefully, which was exactly why he even sent me there for in the first place.”

She sighed. “His methods are a bit…”

“Uncivilised.”

“…unconventional. As much as I will admit that it was short-sighted of him to undermine you in this manner, I do trust him. After all, he knows Brithavathe and his Reflection the best."

Solas scoffed. “It might not seem like a problem now, but what will you do when this behaviour of his deepens?” 

“Oh, when has his eccentricity been a problem for me?” Sou’nin responded, trailing the words along her lifted lips.  “Then he will have to remember who exactly helped him raise to power when his efforts proved insufficient. He may claim the Sun as his symbol, but mine is the Dragon. Two can play that game of his.”

He supposed it was rather ridiculous of him to believe that she would share his concerns regarding the questionable acts that her husband was manifesting, now more pronounced than ever. As a general, Geal used to be highly regarded, with his impressively disciplined army and impeccable open-field tactics, but even then, he would push his allies past their limit in his pursuit of conquest. His power, of course, knew a limit, and where the Sun’s fiery wrath ended, the Dragon’s breath began, dragging it on the wings of glory. Where Geal lacked, Sou’nin excelled – despite her ascension to power being carried with solitary steps, he had indeed needed her help to keep his own authority.

There had been no more hostility in the snuffed uprisings in his kingdom since their union. They had both prospered beyond imagination.

What will happen when destruction will inevitably come crashing down from Geal’s cruel sabre, coiling gravely around their frail necks above gallows of scattered ashes.    

He scoffed.

They would be downright fools if they thought Solas would remain to piece back the shards.

“Enough of this austere attitude,” Sou’nin’s crystalline mirth realigned his mind to the narrow forest path. “I have not invited you on this expedition for political discussions. I need you to be in a properly creative state. I want you to decorate one of the wings.”

They had almost reached the edges of a glade; the party of guards ahead of them already started to unpack the camp supplies.

“You must truly loathe those walls,” Solas replied in low voice, to which he received a dismissive laugh. “I have only drawn on parchment, and even then, those were only sketches,” he pushed, a sliver of indignancy creeping into his tone.

“Nonsense. You will do a marvellous job.”

“Is that an order, Great Dragon?” he asked with a taunting smile.

Sou’nin, as always, seemed thoroughly unfazed and unimpressed by the small jeer. “You may start by gathering some inspiration from this campsite,” she finally answered, unmounting the hart. “Bring the night’s sky underneath the stone.”

Solas dropped from Taras’s unsaddled back, his eyes following Sou’nin’s cape mellow waves in the warm zephyr. With deft fingers, she called upon a folded cerulean fabric from one of the packed bags, which unfurled and crimpled before her with each step that she took. Roots grew from the ground, fastening the corners, and sturdy branches braided into a rounded frame, settling the cloth into a small pavilion.

The structure had been made with ease and Solas had seen it done countless times by now to know that she would have had no issues with building herself the few items of furniture she needed, yet a couple of staff-wielding guards quickly started weaving a chair and a table, undoubtedly following with a bed soon after.

“Allow me,” Solas told Taren, who had taken upon himself to gather stones for an arcane fire chalice, lifting a slab with an emerald flourish.

The Arcane Warrior was the only other elvhen aside from himself wearing a simple leather outfit, with a worn wolf head burnished into the shoulder pads. As per his preference, his armour differed from Solas’s through the simple ironbark gauntlet on his right hand and a similarly-fashioned spaulder on the corresponding shoulder. Tattered boots that reached his knees over comfortably loose trousers sagged at his ankles, mirroring his own’s almost perfectly if not for the splotchy stains of weathered hide.

There was no need to impress anyone on this expedition, however they looked staggeringly out of place amongst the immaculately golden armour of Sou’nin’s personal guards, fully clad in ironbark. Imposing as ever, as if to end a battle before it started, and he couldn’t help but wonder how many scratches in the metal were made by actual weapons. Solas’s gaze fell on Taren as it made rounds onto the soldiers, who was similarly observing their discrepancies. Either instinctively or to drive his amusement further, he looked down towards his own pragmatic armour – and so did the Warrior. A chuckle escaped them both, at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“So, …Solas,” Taren said in low voice, the lack of a title for his ears only. “How many of these moving bulwarks do you think you can take down?” he asked, the hissed question lost to the wind.

“Now, now. Do not tempt me, I am only here to help a friend.”

“As if I would have to tempt you,” Taren laughed. “Don’t lie, you have to have had this thought before. Big, bulky armour? They’d have no chance to parry properly. A small nick here,” and he subtly traced the side of his neck with his gloved nail, “one side of a staff at the back of their knees and the duel is over.”

“I see you have the wish to carry me back to Enansalan instead of simply crossing the gates on Tarasyl’nin’s back,” Solas retorted, feigning disinterest by observing the preparations of the guards around them, and simultaneously pushing away the appetising suggestion of a duel.

“And just as I’ve said every time it has happened: it would be an honour.”

Solas chuckled. “Careful, or I’ll have you changed. Serahel has been practically begging to take your job ever since we have left.”

“Oh no, Rajelan, don’t change your personal guard. Who else will carry you from the hardest battles of all, the seventh pint of wine?” Taren said, with a slight smile on his lips.

Solas only responded with a pointed look, turning his attention to the fire pit.

Having been informally dismissed, Taren continued assembling the outside portion of the firepit, while a guard assumed the role of digging a shallow bowl for the fire to rest into. Solas lowered himself on the ground, gathering his feet underneath him and watched them intently. As much as he enjoyed not being paraded again to other kings and queens’ courts under Geal’s banner, it was still far from what he would have found enjoyable at this time of the night. A fleeting thought crossed his mind – _Is it too late to refuse the invitation and return to the vhenasalathe?_

Solas rubbed his palms together, stretching his joints as the two elvhen were close to being done with their preparations. Drawing upon the energies in the air, he rolled the sparks between his fingers; where normal fire would have been unbearable to hold by now, arcane fire only gave the illusion of supposed scorching heat, the mind filling in the missing gaps between reality and expected feeling. He let the growing flakes engulf his arm completely before throwing the glowing gauntlet into the pit, the impact causing it to flare quickly in crackling waves and settling serene soon after.

He found himself alone in front of the firepit. Taren and the guard had dispersed, probably to tend to their own makeshift beds. _It can wait_ , Solas thought to himself while tracing his fingers idly through the deceiving flames, moulding them into swirling patterns. Nevertheless, it would not have been the first time he would have slept in a precarious arrangement; the life of a soldier never brought enough time to weave comfortable beds while on the road, and it certainly never let him lay snug and enjoy his dreams. What was another night of sleeping on the cold dirt? No one would bother him in any case, he could claim any patch of land and be sure that the guards would avoid him just as they have done on the road from Enansalan to the glade. His only regret was leaving Taren alone, though the elvhen seemed to be received with less apprehension and stilted conversations.

The delicate shapes were suddenly scattered by a soaring dragon, small and ephemeral and made of emerald blaze – he turned lazily towards the culprit.

“Should you not be helping out with the camp preparations?”

The young elvhen unfastened his staff from its clasp along his back and measured it in his hands, trailing his eyes along the camp. He shrugged. “I think they can manage without me. Unless you don’t want my company.”

“Not particularly,” Solas replied dryly, returning his attention to the fire.

“That’s tough.”

The guard sat himself on the ground in one fluid motion, shrinking the weapon to the size of a stick and rolling it over his knuckles. Solas stared at him incredulous.

“Oh, excuse me, were you expecting a different answer? I’ll keep that in mind when I’ll need a promotion,” the elvhen added with a wide grin plastered on his face.

He looked like any other guard, with their layered pauldrons and vambraces fastened over dark leather, scale mail framing the chestplate and dripping in stratified tassets, reminiscent of the robes the initiates would wear during their training. The helmet had been left somewhere behind, revealing messy hair that reached over his ears. Although all Elvhen carried the Fade in their eyes through various degrees of lilac, Solas included - through a faded ring around his irises -, he was daringly studied in return by a curious gaze, vibrant and fully seized by violet.

What was different from any other guard, however, was the uncaring attitude in his presence. He averted his gaze, apparently deciding that Solas was easily decipherable in just a few moments and reached for his flask.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Haleir,” the elvhen replied after his finished swig, halting his fingers’ motions once green sparks began to surround his hand. “Don’t worry, Rahmahel, it’s not going to be of any use to you. I’m being trained for our queen’s personal guard.”

Solas chuckled at the sound of his true title. “So it seems. Very disciplined, the lot of you.”

“We are, when it’s needed. In the rest of the time, we have been encouraged to behave with some kind of autonomy.”

“Haleir, you are third in line for night guard duty. Don’t drink too much, will you? Or at least leave some for the rest of us this time,” a second guard approached them with relaxed stride, straightening quickly once his eyes fell on Solas. “Rajelan,” he greeted in stiff tone.

Haleir turned to the elvhen, grabbing his arm in an encouragement to sit by his side.

“Ah, you must remember Ilvin, I’ve heard he was on the last mission to Telenathe’s court. The… commander will join us for the drinks, isn’t that right?”

Ilvin sheepishly removed his helmet as he joined them, his dusty blonde hair spilling over his golden pauldrons; Haleir was correct, Solas did remember him. He had a gentle yet sharp look to him, and a faded scar cupped his left cheek, deepening the sunken appearance. Ilvin had joined him on a few occasions on wild hunts and diplomatic missions, though they had never discussed much. Just as he was now, the elvhen seemed much more deeply concerned with their rank difference than he should have been and kept his distance, which was infuriating – as the man was capable and let his work speak for itself and thus might have had an interesting point of view to share, and also welcomed – as his other companions were trampling over each other to earn his favour; another voice to be added to the noise would have had undoubtedly broken his already thin calm.   

He knew almost nothing about Sou’nin’s royal guards apart from their shared qualities, which were of no real use to him should he end up fighting alongside them – and they knew nothing about him in return.

“I suppose I could not say no to good wine and good,” Solas began, glancing towards Ilvin– “… company,” –and trailed his eyes towards Haleir.

Haleir gave him a satisfied smirk before moving quickly to his hart. Ilvin shifted uncomfortably in his seat and sent a ripple through the arcane fire to occupy his hands.  

“This right here,” Haleir’s cheerful voice resounded as he made his way back to the firepit. “Is the humblest soldier you will find in all Enansalan.”

He stopped to hand them a wine bottle, his eyes darting between them and finally settling to offering it to Solas. He sat himself strategically to be next in line for the passed bottle.

“He will be the first to recognise others’ accomplishments, and the last to accept his,” Haleir continued. “I’ve seen him take down whole packs of demons in the Adahlen Bellanaris by himself after the rest of us had been badly injured.”

“A soldier’s worth is always measured by the might of the army. There is no progress in separating and raising the individual without soaring as a unit,” Ilvin chimed in impassable tone, though a hint of a smile betrayed him.

“That being said, he’s saved my hide more times than I will admit. He’s also the one who enrolled me into the army. Plucked me right out of the Second Ring.”

Solas took a large gulp of wine and passed the bottle directly to Ilvin, garnering a soft scoff from Haleir.

“I would look up to so many knights passing our quarter on their morning patrol, back when the ring barely had more than a few clusters along the wall,” he continued, accepting his predicament. “The king hadn’t even ordered the rebuilding of the houses near the main road.”

He stopped with a low chuckle.

“They never spared me, or the others, a second glance. Always a cold look, and a ‘ _Stand aside’_ – if any. It was our responsibility to make sure we weren’t trampled under halla and hart hooves. But not him. Ilvin was different.”

“Sounds like you have a good judge of aptitudes, Ilvin, given that Haleir is here in Sou’nin’s personal guard. Less so of a good judge of character.”

“Give him some time and you will warm up to him,” Ilvin chuckled and reached to rustle Haleir’s hair. “We’re lucky that we have had peace for so long though. As much as I trust him and my lethellinen with my life, I’d hate to see them bathed in the dusky light of another war.”

Solas nodded, feeling his smile melting away. He breathed in deeply.

“What have you done to gather his attention, then?”

“I had conjured up a spectral blade on a wooden hilt,” Haleir replied triumphantly, stopping to take a swig from the bottle that had finally reached him. “I say hilt – it was more of a two-branch twined together situation.”

Solas raised his brows, along with the corners of his mouth feeling a sudden rush of pride for the hopeful child that Haleir once was. “That was very resourceful of you to have done so without any proper training.”

“If only remained that way. The… _proper_ training was less exciting. I much prefer to channel elemental energies now. Less need for fancy posture.”  

The bottle reached Ilvin again and Solas returned his gaze to the fire, revelling in the serene crackling of arcane blaze, feeling its deceitful warmth on the back of his uncovered hands. The rest of the guards started falling into their assigned roles, and some started trickling towards their merry group.

“The night is young, my friends,” an elvhen reached them, setting her palms on her fellow guards’ shoulders. “Shall we begin the races?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Haleir responded giddily. “Raise the stakes this time, lethallenen, Rahmahel will bet on his kingdom.”

Solas laughed heartily, unable to find himself angry at the ridiculous suggestion. He glanced behind him, scouring the camp for Taren and motioning him to join them once he was finally found.

“Are you really prepared to lose everything you own?” he asked, swirling his fingers to shape a halla, his racer, in the fire. “Tell you what, I will give you a chance to win by betting on my sylvanwood staff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adahlen Bellanaris - Eternal Forest  
> vhenasalathe - brothel
> 
> Brithavathe - Envy (Falon’Din)  
> Telenathe - Sloth (Ghilan’nain)  
> Geal - Terror (Elgar'nan)  
> Sou'nin - Wrath (Mythal)  
> Isa - Hunger (Andruil)
> 
> Translations done with the help of FenxShiral's works.
> 
> As I was writing this chapter I realised it was going to end up being at least double the usual amount of words and it had to be broken up into two... after which we'll be back to the present timeline!
> 
> * edited 04-09-19 to add translations for all the Evanuris' names so far


	22. The Godhead: Creation II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas and his companions reach Sou'nin's construction site.

The echoes of their footsteps reached far into the tunnel, yet paradoxically crashed unto the smooth walls that caged their narrow path. He had only been down into a mine once before, and even then, he had felt a vague weight on his lungs and a faint dizziness as his ears searched for outside noises, to confirm that he would not end up being stuck underneath the earth forever. As unpleasant as the feeling was, there were worse situations one could find themselves in: at least he did not share Dalinev’s fear of heights.

“The scope is very impressive,” Solas said, unsure if it was for himself or for Sou’nin; he was completely enraptured by the glowing mushrooms that lined the stone ceiling.

They had arrived at a grand room, generous enough to house two dozen busy workers and their construction tools, a few set tents, pensive architects, and their own large group of twenty-six guards – and still have enough space for at least triple the amount.  

“It quite is,” Sou’nin responded, her excitement clear in her tone. “You are free to have a look around while I convene with the architects.”

Solas moved through the first set of angled arches, reminiscent of the gates outside Enansalan’s rings, and brushed a feather-like touch over the glowing mushrooms that vined along the columns. He understood now why Sou’nin suggested that he should take inspiration from the night’s sky – the natural luminescence resembled the stars in an eerily beautiful way that begged to be celebrated.

The floor had already been encrusted in golden tiles, though it did not cover the whole room; he noticed a few workers still laying the mosaic near the western wing’s doors. Moving closer to them – and pointing his arcane fire torch – he could see the intricate detailing along the tall doors, depicting dragons in their flight.

The ground shivered for a moment, which garnered a loud jesting cheer from the workers and a confused look thrown towards Taren. The other guards wore the same expression, yet they quickly shook it off once Solas’s own fleeted his features.

As uncomfortable as it was to find himself underground, the closeness to the stone felt bizarrely invigorating and he felt compelled to place his palm on the wall as he continued his exploration. He gave smiling nods to the spirits entering the site, being greeted likewise. The workers, however, paid them no mind and Solas had no intention to interrupt their activities.

It was astonishing what advancements their society could make once the great wars had ended: his kingdom – built upon the shadows of a previous age, with gardens that spilled from suspended platforms and would bloom in vibrant colours and delicate shapes; Isalathe’s incredible locks – imbued with experimental magic that only needed a droplet of its residents’ blood and would open doors, gates, entire pathways; Telenathe’s guiding beacons – that shined and reached any corner of the world, pointing towards the viewer’s home, whichever that may be.

They had conquered the land and now – they could claim the world beneath the surface.

Solas turned towards Sou’nin just as he heard the rattle of her channelling jewellery approach them, unable to hide the gleam he held for Elvhenan.

He saw the queen’s lips moving, but no sound could pierce the unbearable noise of crackling stones. The ground shook again and Solas frantically sought to grasp the staff still in its hold around his back, his fingers slipping under the disorientating waves. His eyes regained focus and darted towards Taren in a desperate attempt to anchor himself, and the hectic weight of armour on his arm told him that – _Void –… Void take them!_ “Unhand me or we both fall!” – one of the guards was just as frenzied for support.

Splintering creaks. _Shale?_ filling lungs. Rushing weight coming down.

Light escaping… and light rebirthed – a desperately cast wisp.

A ring in his ears and everything sounded sharply distant.

Jagged edges scraping skin under real skin under its second skin.

Falling. _Where_? Numbness under grappling nails followed by an agonising realisation.   

A barrier cradled his being, soft and reassuring.

Cutting pain, knives daring into his back – and the world folded into itself with its wretched images, deafening sounds and choking scents, only himself and his melting ache would remain in its cramped core.

He lazily closed his lids as the light managed to catch up with them, in a low sigh of exhaustion…

 

…and flashed them open once again, to the image of blood-stained strands of the sun.

“Good to see you awake, Rahmahel,” a tired voice greeted him, the kindness soothing his stinging wounds.

Solas blinked once. Twice. The shapes began to catch edges, as his vision was cast in a green light. He gasped hungrily, as if his lungs tasted air for the first time and his throat sated its thirst with water from the clearest streams.

Another gasp, this time given for the burning spikes he suddenly felt along his limbs before being stripped of the pain by emerald waves.

“Bear with me, Rahmahel, I am almost done,” the voice announced with slight urgency.

He concentrated on the figure hunched over him: long blond hair, the colour mudded by crimson dirt, gentle yet determined eyes azure like the ocean, cheeks sunken in worry along a white scar.

“Ilvin…” Solas began, testing his own tone. “Ilvin. Ilvin, thank you, I can…” he paused, his fingers twitching on the ground against rough pebbles. “I can take care of the wounds myself now.” 

The elvhen gave him a weary smile.

“Just thank all the spirits in the world for cushioning our fall… and mine enough to heal myself and help others. Your armour is good enough for moving quickly, Rajelan, but not so much for landslides.”

Solas responded with a low chuckle, which he regretted almost immediately when it garnered him a dagger in-between his ribs.

“What happened to the others?” he finally managed to ask, slowly propping himself up on his elbows.

“They are in various degrees of discomfort, to put it lightly. You and Taren had gotten the worst of it.” Ilvin answered, seating himself with his legs bent at the knees, slumping his armoured shoulders in exhaustion.  

Solas took a deep breath and began working at the cuts along his arms. Fatigue made it difficult to concentrate, his magic barely able to sew his severed flesh together and only laying shallow threads over the aching valleys. He watched his skin stretch slowly and shyly – nothing like Ilvin’s nimble treatments, attempting to heal the raw tissue underneath.  When finally meeting its matching frayed ends, it retracted swiftly as if magic never touched it. The sharp sting that followed made him bite his knuckles.

He finally sighed, glancing at the multitude of similar cuts that glistened across his leather armour. 

“How is Taren?”

“He is recovering quickly. Rosha has been healing his wounds and he should be back on his feet soon.”

Solas mustered a faint smile accompanied by a nod. He closed his eyes, pushing away thoughts and recent events, only concentrating on the distant echoes of murmuring healing magic. He returned his gaze towards the cuts and attempted a new spell, feeling a surge of rejuvenating energy traveling through his veins.

“Where do you think we are?” he asked, watching the laceration starting to close itself.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Rajelan. I could not make much sense of our descent.”

Solas hummed, lifting his eyes towards the impenetrable darkness once he was sure the stitching would continue by itself.

“Do you have any injuries that require further attention?” he asked, standing up and stretching his limbs, the magic enveloping his body in a vibrant mail.

“There is nothing that I cannot manage on my own,” Ilvin replied with a weak smile.

The man was self-sufficient to a fault, yet Solas could not find it within himself to argue with him. It was a state of mind he had seen before through his own eyes: the need for affirmation solely through his actions untainted by others’ aid burning deep within his being. Ilvin, however, seemed to be driven by something entirely different than an underlying ambition. _If only Sou’nin hadn’t gotten him for her royal guard…_ Solas would have recruited him in a heartbeat.

He turned on his heels, swiping a hand through the air and kindling arcane fire between his fingers. He finally laid eyes on the group that got caught in the landslide, still preoccupied with tending to their wounds. Taren was, just as Ilvin had anticipated, almost fully healed, though his fall seemed to have been far worse than the elvhen presented it, as three of Sou’nin’s guards had just finished their spells. The queen herself was scrutinising the darkness, shrouded in the faint fuzzy glimmer of an aura. Solas spotted Haleir stretching his arms, along with a couple more guards which had lost their wine flasks during their nightly bets.

_No one seems to be needing help_. 

He whistled, amplifying the noise with a nonchalant spell; the relatively scattered group of elvhen all turned towards him as the echoes filled the impenetrable abyss. The sound went on forever in the space unfolding onwards, though it would stop abruptly on either side of him as if they were in a long cage.

Turning around again, he weighted his options, eyes squinting in the distance in a meaningless attempt to catch some shapes in the walls. With another swish through the air, he lit up another arcane fire, this time crumpling the ephemeral blaze into a sphere and breaking it up again with impatient nails. The glowing orbs quivered peacefully in his palm, before being thrown in different directions around his axis. The light bounced along the ground, some being stopped by the walled barrier far away from their group… and some falling off the ground altogether.

“We are not quite as enclosed as I thought we would be,” Sou’nin approached him, brows furrowed in – he realised – a mirror of his own.

“So it seems,” he replied in low voice, preparing another set of glowing spheres.

The new arrays began to map out the large gaps between the walls, leaving orbs behind to designate their beginning and their end, and Solas concentrated as much as he could on the light and less on the sinking feeling in his stomach. The openings could potentially signify a way out, but they could just as well be their final resting place with only a wrongly placed step.

“It would be safest to keep towards the central point of the ground for now,” Solas shouted towards the others. “The Void will not take us today,” he added in low voice, more for himself. 

Despite his own warning, he approached the walls in hopes of finding a means to return to the construction site above without having to dare into the unknown. Casting arcane fire again, he restricted it to the form of a small flame in his palm which he could move along the surface.

Nothing.

Only shallow, craggy lines. 

Unscalable.

Although he left out an indignant sigh, he could not help but note the remarkable marbling in the stone; layers upon layers of minerals, maybe even lines of different metals given the eager reflection of light along the thin veins, made for an unusually exquisite pattern into the stone.

_Unusual?_   What would he know? He barely ventured into mines anyway.  

He placed a palm over it, and spores lit in a vibrant azure pulsating along the wall through a calm wave and closing onto themselves as he retracted his hand.

Beautiful – though ultimately useless.

He turned around to face Sou’nin, who looked just as at a loss as he felt. Tacitly, she threw a wisp of light towards the ceiling – it travelled fast and far, with not a stop in sight.

_A chasm,_ he gathered the new puzzle piece trying to fit it into the previous information.

Dizziness and disorientation settled over his senses, and he suddenly felt small and insignificant on the edge of this wretched abyss. Powerless – an awareness he had thought familiar when the soldiers of old pillaged innocent hamlets; when his own army could not save the small villages from being incinerated by enemy forces; when his own kingdom suffered from cutting famine.

The feeling now related to only his being, crushing his existence between unseen dangers, unending falls and bleak destiny.

He faced the wall again, placing one finger at a time onto the surface and placing his torment onto the slumbering spores. The light, as expected, extended over the stone in erratic waves. Unexpectedly, however, the mindless action brought an odd sense of serenity and invigoration, and he could not stop himself from recreating it over and over.

A thin azure line appeared on the stone, connecting the spores together – almost like a recreation of the night sky’s constellations. 

“You should come see this, Sou’nin! This new predicament might be downright frightening, but at least it is entertaining.” 

Solas did not wait to see the queen’s reaction to the astonishing patterns the spores were drawing on the walls – that seemed to give out an increasingly more intense light – before turning around, still wearing a delighted gleam…

…which paled abruptly and harrowingly, draining in a cold shower from his cheeks. His breath cut, stuck in his throat, as slabs of ice smothered the tips of his limbs.

The colossal disc that opened in the wall could have barely even noticed him considering its diameter, his shivering being merely a rheum along its thick rim – and Solas almost revelled in the belief that this could hold true, if not for the bubbly white pupil that sluggishly pointed around the chasm before settling right onto him.

He was staring into the blue eye of the Void – and it stared right back at him.

“Solas…” Sou’nin’s trembling tone broke his frozen state. “Solas, back away from… _It_ slowly.”

Solas gulped – he took three deep breaths, pushing all the air out of his lungs with his exhales and felt the knot in his throat loosen. His fingers, albeit still shaking, recovered some of their lost heat while he regained control over his own body – and his feet began to sluggishly but purposeful move him towards the group without losing sight of the great eye.

The gargantuan disk closed into itself, reminiscent of a squint. The ground shivered in warning.

“Run!” Solas shouted, casting a barrier around himself and extending it towards the group in concentric pulsating rings.

Nine spheres of light of varying sizes were thrown onwards, as the elvhen frantically rushed into the unknown. Their steps conjured brittle echoes, deafening over the looming threat of falling boulders as another quiver surged underneath their feet. The layered blades of light of their Fade steps clouded the distance, and Solas changed his angle to prepare for one of his own.

Current. Tingling zaps along exposed prickly skin. Green strokes over blurred stones.

He hazarded a glance towards his right and his left, finding himself in-between Haleir and a guard that he had known as jovial and welcoming, both bearing expressions of horror, their lips merely white lines spread against clenched teeth.

The ground shook again voraciously, and a fresh barrier was extended from the rear lines just as boulders rattled dangerously close to them. His feet almost gave in when another Fade step desperately avoided the collision, the dash’s sudden whirlwind bringing a disorientating ring into his ears.

The ground gave way and he slipped; bracing for impact, he attempted to stop the painful fall with the spaulder on his shoulder.

His breath stilled.

His eyes opened wide, petrified.

The ground angled towards their point of departure as if an enormous hand pressed its palm’s mound on its dining table, angrily spilling the morsels on the primordial floor.

The guard fell, and Solas frantically extended his unanchored hand to catch him by the arm. His efforts were in vain – he was never close enough to help him, and the man's piercing scream filled the chasm as he rolled onto the ground. Solas released the breath he had been holding in saccadic waves, glancing towards the blinding light that emanated at the end of their running platform, tracing the dark edges of the eerie oval, and noticing its faint quiver.

He paled. The elvhen slid into the light and the rim shut over his vision.

The realisation settled brittle and chilling.

He had been lost to the gaping maw of the ghastly creature.

Suddenly he became aware of the open space on his right, as more azure discs opened in the far distance, and he prayed that they would not be bathed in more light from the walls that lined their passage.

The ground was released with a jolt and they missed no heartbeats before their chase began anew. Frantic, desperate, delirious. Towards where? They had to find an exit soon, or else they would each be plucked off like plump grapes to sate the creature’s hunger.

Ragged breath. Misaligned steps. Fist smashed into the ground. Stabilisation through a pushing gust of magic.

His hearing was both obstructed and acutely aware of his surroundings. If the others were horrifyingly afraid, none seemed to find it in them to vocalise it. Slabs fell again – Solas did not have enough time to change his direction and instead pushed through a Fade step to climb the interference, nails painfully grasping at the rough surface.

He jumped back onto the ground with a resounding thump, and the platform began to incline again.

“Quickly, anchor yourselves with the staves!” Sou’nin shouted from somewhere on his left.

Solas clenched his fingers over the weapon, unclasping it from its holder and cast a parting spell on the blade at its end, splitting the ground as it lodged into it.

With desolate eyes, he saw two guards lose balance ahead of his position, unable to hook themselves in place – Rosha, the Ena'sal'in'amelan who had helped Taren, and a man whose singing voice delighted their campsite merriments. Both would be lost to the harrowing abyss, the lack of their screams somehow more frightening. He willed his eyes shut and they would not listen to him, propped open by icicles and torn breath, as light bathed them once again… from behind and from the onwards stretching distance.    

Surrounded.

The realignment of the ground did little to stop his draining hope.

Nevertheless, they began their run anew in a pointless dance across the chasm. His eyes darted along their path’s barriers, now lit in azure from distant giant opened eyes and shivering spores.

“We need to scale the walls! There is a gap in the ceiling,” Taren shouted, catching up to him with a Fade step. “Right there! The orb of arcane fire is stuck along the entrance!”

“Are you mad?!” Sou’nin bellowed, dodging a fallen boulder. “Who knows how many of these creatures there are along this platform?!”

_Maybe this is our way out_ , Solas thought, glancing at the thin ridges in the stone.

Too narrow to climb all the way up.

Unless…

“Taren is right. You will all have to trust me! Follow my lead!”

He lunged towards the left wall in a Fade step, his senses regained and breath finally settling into a calm rhythm. The others followed shortly, tentatively grasping at the shallow grooves. Ensuring that everyone had managed to latch themselves to the wall, he began scaling with controlled urgency. He fugitively checked on Haleir and one of his fellow guards who he had let overtake him, Taren and Sou’nin who flanked on either side of him, and Ilvin and the remaining guard who the elvhen helped climb onto the jagged surface.

Their feet were slipping, and their fingers raked over spores, sending them spiralling downwards – a trudge to climb, and an even more arduous task to remain secured. The ascent was slow but steady, even as a quake marred the chasm once again. However, it was irrelevant how close they were to the top: Solas was aiming for the thin azure line that cracked the wall into two hemispheres.

Closer and closer.

His fingers skid onto the ridge, sending broken gravel after the spores – and he looked mesmerised for a moment at the serene light.

Swiped right off the platform by a monstrous megalith, its thumb-like brother obstructing the lit eyes in the chasm’s gap.

“Hurry up!” Solas managed to shout, his voice cracked and throat dry, as if he used his chords for the first time in centuries.

The first guard passed the luminescent crack in the wall. Haleir followed.

Taren and Sou’nin.

Ilvin and his fellow Ena'sal'in'amelan.

“Hang tight!” he roared, propping himself closer and digging his nails in.

He took a breath and steadied himself.

_One. Two._

_Three._

Solas ripped his staff from its clasp along his back and in one smooth motion he smashed it forcefully into the crack, channelling all the energy he could muster and transforming it into electricity, discharging it though the base of the sylvanwood handle.

The wall convulsed, and the colossal eye opened its terrifying beacon; desperation settled in his stomach as he saw his companions – just as he himself was – thrown into the air, unglued from the stone lid.

“Fade step, quickly!” Ilvin shouted, as Sou’nin’s bright barrier enveloped them.

Flashing lights split the blurred falling slabs; in the middle of their ascent, Solas cast a ring of gale away from them, changing their direction towards the wall. With their sprint finished, fingers grappled at the grooves in their sliding descent along the moving surface.

He couldn’t tell if everyone had made it.

Solas looked upwards and saw Sou’nin quickly beginning her climb, followed by the frantic sounds of four other distinctive sets of limbs. The orb of arcane fire would have almost been close enough to touch had they managed to sustain their Fade step and stop their skid earlier.

Almost there.

Just a few more – his right foot slipped – steps.

Almost…

Almost…

Sou’nin was first to reach the narrow passage. In her crawl, he noticed that the space was completely vertical for a few meters, becoming horizontal soon after – and he allowed himself a sigh of relief to fuel his climb.

The others had managed to climb as well before he had reached the passage. He waited for Haleir to reach them and helped his trembling hand to grab the edge of the ridges; the new walls were far easier to latch onto. Although the creature’s head was slowly starting to move more erratically, the path was still clear for Ilvin.

He closed his eyes, just as Haleir extended his own arm to help the remaining elvhen join them. Adrenaline still inflamed him and numbed the pain he should have felt from his bloodied broken nails. A chuckle escaped his throat, bright and plain.

Glancing at Ilvin, he was still struggling to catch the other elvhen’s arm.

The lights on the platform below were oddly at peace with their escape, even through constant quakes, and he took it as the earth’s blessing for their second chance at perishing in the comfort of uthenera.

No… spore lit in sight.

His brows furrowed in confusion.

The ground split, a slow motion that gave their eyes moments to adjust to the blinding light. A faint zephyr rustled his dishevelled hair, his ears filling with birds’ cheerful chirps, his vision soothed by the verdant crowns of myriads of trees growing from floating platforms, and his nostrils satiated by the scent of blooming flowers. He peered at the marvellous world unfolding before him, perplexed yet content at the bizarre second earth that had awaited them in the abyss.

He moved his gaze towards Ilvin, feeling as if he was a spectator viewing their predicament from the outside, sluggish and distant, settling onto the man’s entwined hands into Haleir’s, his eyes sliding off his armour towards his dangling legs.

…and the world below closed shut with immense urgency, no sound remaining but Ilvin’s own shrill and earsplitting cry of agony, as his body remained broken and severed below his armoured ribs. His hands released their grip and a harrowing expression remained etched into his features.

Where his voice faded into the stretching darkness, Haleir’s own heavy howl took its place.

 

“Solas, my dear, you know we do not have the time to sit down and read the books.”

Vivienne threw him an annoyed look, placing her quill back into its ink pot. Her parchment had been filled with numerous titles and years, along with short notes neatly scribbled in elegant handwriting along the edges. 

“Apologies, Enchanter. The temptation to lose myself in these tomes of old was too great.” Solas responded in flat tone, his throat dry and enclosed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isalathe - Desire (June)  
> Geal - Terror (Elgar'nan)  
> Sou'nin - Wrath (Mythal)  
> Brithavathe - Envy (Falon’Din)  
> Telenathe - Sloth (Ghilan’nain)  
> Isa - Hunger (Andruil)
> 
> Translations done with the help of FenxShiral's works.
> 
> * edited 04-09-19 to add translations for all the Evanuris' names so far


	23. Rattling the Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas attempts to get back on track.

Equilibrium. 

A state which he used to consider as synonymous with his own being, now reduced to demanding stringent fabrication. It caught physical form easily once he became severely aware of the dim comedy of his own absurd actions. Lashing out at Dorian – _First misstep_ ; Sparring with Hawke – _Second misstep_ ; He was committing to a third now, but this time by his own calculated volition.

He took another sip of the single malt; a drip lingered at the corner of his mouth from the careless angling of the flask and it soon began to numb his lips in the shape of the scar he had never received. 

Mental equilibrium, however, was a whole different sphere of struggles.  

How easy it was to dissimulate composure; how many battles have seen this impenetrable mask – and what better war to pick than with himself? Strategies would be clean and precise, striking swiftly at the first sign of wavering. It would be even easier than playing chess against Cullen or Dorian, where their moves would hold some degree of surprise: playing against yourself should be merely an exercise in analysis, stopping the game whenever you see fit.

Except – he had been losing.

It was showing through the many wounds laid clumsily across his features, with every wince carving another in the form of pained brows, and every longing gaze crumpling his lips into a snarl. If only he was able to give in, bring her close to his chest and caress her cheek; to listen to his own name flutter softly from between her contented lips as he would shower her in all his admiration, new words melding with those of old when the meaning begged for something more profound. Or listen to his own relieved voice whispering her name, as Mirwen would look at him with the same understanding gaze, after she learnt the truth of his identity.

Still, even now, he picked at the scabs over new skin.

_No more._  

His room was not large by any means, but the absence of possessions opened it enough for his inner eye to envision it as spacious and sufficient. The edges of his austere bed were almost as far away from his elbows as the small desk’s legs were. The stone felt cold under his crossed legs, and his bare shoulders clutched at the lost cool sensation, now barely a ghostly embrace. The night breeze carried faint sounds of rattling armour from the soldiers patrolling near his window’s wall.

Energy surged through his arms, flickering gleefully at his fingertips and into his open palms; occasional erratic ribbons coiled towards his forearm, resting prickly over prominent veins.

If he could not leave his feelings behind in the Fade, they would have to remain in the waking world.

With one breath, Solas liberated the emerald shards; through his inner eye, he could see them scattering into the air, suspended by his will. Another breath – he brought up his hands, moving his fingers in sinuous waves, and with each drift, small pebbles would be invoked from the Fade, swiftly sent back before they could materialise in full form.

The dance was probably inelegant. Possibly drab, save for the shimmering speckles of light that the summonings were producing. It mattered not, since it served no purpose other than simply depleting his energy. 

Had these been different times, the spell would have been trivial – like materialising slabs of stone and laying them neatly in front of his next steps as he walked over a never-ending chasm. Now, he used only a fraction of that power to deplete his reserves. Even worse: it succeeded. He could hear the faint crackle of the wayfaring stones falter, and he knew that, had he opened his eyes, he would see the doors to the Fade as nothing more than fragmented scintillations.

_I shall not be betrayed by my own mind any further._

He let the energy envelop the room in crashing waves one last time. Some of it needed to be preserved, lest he would risk falling prey to unwelcome spirits – and it would be less than ideal to stray again from the clear path towards his agents’ doors.

***

“How are the preparations going?”

Garion’s robes fluttered at the man’s startled reaction, as Solas’s low voice had seemed to pierce the placid silence they had found themselves in, following simple greetings. The sequence conjured was that of an Orlesian Alienage, presumably where Briala had sent the elvhen to observe and report. The room chosen for their meeting was likely hastily picked from memory, as every element was hazy, edges bleeding into edges in an eerily blend. Save for the occasional imperfections – known door amongst worn ones, faces familiar to Garion sitting on the dirt and often-traversed paths – the invoked scenery could have been mistaken as made entirely out of smoke… where them two would be the only ashes.

Solas turned to face the dishevelled elvhen, tracing the dark circles that cupped inky eyes.

“Briala is very interested in the Inquisitor,” Garion answered, proceeding into a nervous pace around the room. “I… am not sure if she has sent words to her diplomat over a possible meeting, but she is definitely considering it. She is also not opposed to meeting with a member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, though it might be better to talk to her before the Inquisitor arrives at the Winter Palace.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Agents are also planned to be posted around the palace. There is a degree of mistrust in the Grand Duke and the Empress… and she wishes to keep a close eye on the Inquisition.”

Solas leaned onto the glassless windowpane, settling his eyes onto one of the many unoccupied beds that dotted the room, in an effort to drown out the image of the door adorned with the Dalish mask.

“Is there any possibility to infiltrate the Winter Palace before the Ball?”

“It could be done, if we send Taren,” Garion finally halted his stride, sitting on the clear bed. “I have been sent farther from Halamshiral and, even then, it would be harder for me to pass as a servant considering…” He motioned indifferently at the scarred halla horns sitting grisly over his brows. Solas gave him a small approving nod.

“I wish for as many rooms as possible to be checked and mapped. The Inquisitor may still change her mind in allowing me to accompany her to Halamshiral, and her advisors may rightfully vote against taking another apostate elf… but that does not mean we cannot retrieve vital information.”  

Solas returned his gaze towards the Alienage, observing the faceless figures’ serene movements. Garion had made note of the activity around their brightly decorated oak, the… _Vhenadahl_ , he managed to pluck the word from his memory, surprised as ever to find it still in usage.

“In any case… always have eyes pointed towards the Inquisitor.”

“You think there is a possibility that we will not learn the Eluvian network passphrase at the ball?”

Solas faced the sky, studying the emerald cracks that patterned the azure under fluffy clouds.

“The passphrase will be recovered while Briala is at the Winter Palace, one way or another,” he finally answered resolute.

***

It was just after dawn when Solas had managed to leave his room, an empty flask filling his left hand and a stack of sketching parchments cradled under his right. He passed the closed doors of the inner circle’s rooms: a loud snore marked Varric’s choice of sleeping in for a second night since they had returned from the Hinterlands; an absence of familiar magical experiments’ faint zaps denoted that Dorian was already in the library, though he might have never left it given his dedication to their research. _Or is it the need to prove himself valuable?_ That type of reasoning he could identify with, though from entirely different circumstances. The two Hands of the Divine were unquestionably already awake, given that soon they would begin their morning prayer. Blackwall? It would not surprise him to see the Warden already working.

He chose to take the longer route towards the rotunda, by passing through the courtyard first. Silence clung onto Skyhold with solemn devotion, as the Inquisition slowly opened its eyes to the golden light that painted the firmament. A group of soldiers hurriedly passed him in their morning exercise, and, for a split second, he considered joining them.

In the soft light of dawn, he could see the silhouette of the elf that plagued his dreams, perched onto the higher steps of the main staircase, hunched and looking as if she carried the whole world’s suffering onto her shoulders before straightening them into a less telling posture.

And there he was, the root of all her problems, walking unchained with throat sated by alcohol, while her locks hung heavy around her ankles in forced sobriety.

“Any luck with your research?” Mirwen asked in tired tone as he climbed the steps.

“The results show great promise,” he began, shifting his sketching parchments awkwardly on his arm. “Our allied mages are getting closer to understanding the effects of the Rifts. I trust that your incursion into the Hinterlands went smoothly.”

She chuckled sleepily and propped herself up. “That… is one way of putting it… You should have been there, Solas. You would have enjoyed the thaig, if nothing else.”

He felt his features soften. “My help was needed here.”

A fleeting pained expression marred her own, and Solas had almost managed to delude himself into thinking she would retort with ‘ _I needed you with me._ ’ No, she has not pushed nor had she pried since their discussion in Crestwood. He would not even be surprised if she would just give up on him and choose to pursue… _anyone else_ – and a knot formed in his chest.  

“But thank you, Inquisitor. I have no doubt that the thaig’s portion of the Fade holds many fascinating memories.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you are avoiding me.”

His breath stilled for a moment, though he knew better than to show it.

“I assure you that it is merely conjecture.”

Mirwen pinned his gaze, scrutinising his features as if to check on the validity of his words and he wished he had gods to pray to that his inner struggle would not seep through the cracks of his decaying mask. A burning question seemed to bubble in her mind, but it dissolved just as quickly as it appeared, when she turned to enter the vestibule with unhurried stride.

She motioned at the glorified throne – a wooden chair, carved in Fereldan design, sitting in front of the colourful glass of tall windows, solitary in the near-empty hall. The new drapes and heraldry had been installed, golden trees and Dalish masks rivalling the sun’s own golden glimmer.

“There have been five judgements since we’ve arrived at Skyhold,” Mirwen began, the sight locked absently. “All have been brought to my feet as if I have any right to weigh their morality or to deliver a correct sentence. Who’s to say what’s right and what is not? Just because they think I was sent by their shem prophet, they think I can draw on her… wisdom.”

“You are the head of the Inquisition, and with that comes the burden of discerning between valuable allies and those who deserve an end for their miserable actions. There is no way of telling if a choice taken was correct or flawed until you have already begun walking the created path.”

She scoffed, turning to face him as if to punctuate her reaction. “Then what is the answer? Carry on with my limited vision, praying to Ghilan’nain that the path will not lead off a cliff?”

“Are you doubting any decisions you have taken so far?”

“No… but they haven’t had any chance to simmer. Alexius is researching with the mages, Dedrick was handed to Ferelden to be judged, and the three landowners that have been brought here have been forced to share their resources with the refugee camps.”

Mirwen shook her head.

“If Alexius tampers with the research in favour of the Venatori, if the Fereldan authorities give Dedrick a lenient sentence and if the landowners deal with the refugees in a violent way, then I may as well bring myself in front of the Inquisitorial throne to answer for the devastating consequences.”

“Your priority is defeating the magister. So far you have eliminated one of his agents and in doing so, you have been gifted with a glimpse into his future plans. You said you have limited vision, but it is far from truth. The answers lie within the small details, those that are difficult to hide. You only need to learn how to piece them together.”

Solas snuffed the pain before it had a chance to show on his features; he wondered if he could take away her burden by sharing his own… though just how much more hurt could this bring with the revelation that not only he was the cause of her misery, but her entire people’s agony carried through the winds of history.

Three words, and it could be over, whatever end they would bring.

_Which words will it be_?

“As for your issues with those that you have judged… Inquisition soldiers and scouts are stationed near the camps and in Crestwood, and the mages are keeping a very close eye on Alexius. No choice is truly free of negative consequences – all you can do is attempt to minimise them.”

Mirwen sighed, giving him a short nod. “It makes my skin crawl… It feels like a mockery of the All-Mother to stand in front of them, to pass justice or vengeance.”

Solas stepped in front of her, shielding the throne from her view. He wished to take her hands in his, thumbs caressing in reassurance, and he almost gave into his wishes had he not noticed all the Orlesian nobles that started to trickle down into the main hall. He resolved to clasping his wrists at his back.

“You are doing fine,” he said softly. “Do not lose track of what you are fighting for.”

She looked into his eyes again, studying the planes of his face – and he held no fear. No deceit was necessary, for he truly believed the words that clung between them.

_Never again shall you submit._

“The meeting for the Winter Palace will begin after the morning prayer,” Mirwen finally said, shifting to move past him, before giving him a small smirk. “Your research will have to wait until after this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break, real life got in the way and apparently it was harder to jump back into the Inquisition timeline than I initially thought it would be >.<


	24. Slither

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas attends the meeting for the Winter Palace Ball and has to take a few decisions of his own.

 They traversed the distance towards the War Room in contemplative silence, their leisured steps lingering against the stone path through mellow echoes. Distinct and familiar, he had grown accustomed to her soft stride and found himself surprised at the continuous comfort it had been bringing him; from the innocuous backdrop of his stagnant days in Haven to the sweet ripple in the lull of his painting, it was the serene respite before the storm that they would lead to.

The massive door close behind them as they walked towards the central table.

It was the first time he had seen the War Room in this new iteration, and he was more surprised by the lack of organisation of documents and maps on the table than by the austerity of the décor. Nine simple chairs were lined by the walls, with four iron ensigns guarding the windows facing the entrance. The Eye of the Inquisition stood proud, overlooking past and future plans, while two ravens and two spiked fists flanking it. _Interesting… imagery_ , Solas thought, dismissing them with a faint rise of a brow.

There was a sharp contrast between this room and the main hall, which was slowly being arranged to inspire awe and grandeur as more nobles ended their power-seeking pilgrimages in Skyhold, Josephine clearly having them frolic on the strings of her Game. Behind the closed doors of their organisation however, the reality of its inception in dire times was apparent.

Mirwen peered at the sky for a moment, locks glistening in the daylight, then delicately moved some documents to the side and perched herself on the table. She gave the maps a quick look before arching her back, stretching sleepily.

Solas traced the curve of her waist, defined and supple, eyes moving slowly down towards the end of her crinkled tunic. How easily he could close the space between them; lace his lips in her scathing gasp, agonizingly teasing them both with almost-touches of mouths ajar; languidly brush the tips and bridges of their noses, urging each other to chase the tormenting kiss with heavy breath. How easily he could glide his tongue against her own and his arm above her hips, guiding her back towards the table. Draped, she would lay over the maps and documents, trembling under bites and grazes surrendered on her neck and under the tunic’s collar, their fingers grasping at each other’s limbs and clothes and skin with restless abandon. How easily the room would fill with throbs and sighs and luscious moans, on which he would feast his starved ears and ravenous eyes. 

_How easily Elvhenan could lose everything for a second time._  

Solas exhaled sharply. 

_Pull yourself together!_

“We have received a few invitations to the Winter Palace Ball,” Mirwen finally broke the silence. “They are from the Empress’ cousin, who I hear that they have a very… tangled history.” 

She sighed.

“I am really not looking forward to dancing around to their so-called Game. But… I am glad, Solas,” Mirwen said softly, giving him a sad smile, “… that you will be there with me. Halamshiral might not mean much to you, but I wouldn’t have anyone else to see it with.” 

Solas peered at her disconcerted. He struggled to find the right words, between appreciation for their closeness and her reverence for her people’s history… when Halamshiral was a feeble shadow of Arlathan, and his reason for accompanying her was entirely obscured by the incredibly opportune circumstance for recovering the Eluvian network in person.

…but was it truly obscured when her beam cracked even the highest pillars that mounted his plans high above the world? 

The door opened before he had another chance at forming his answer, and her advisors poured into the room one by one moving quickly towards them. He could see the figures of Vivienne, Dorian, Varric and Cassandra following at the end of the corridor. 

Solas resumed his stoic presence, following Mirwen as she approached the burdened group. He watched distracted the eerily familiar ritual of the beginning of a meeting that commenced, the advisors curtly greeting their leader. She was clearly still unaccustomed to the separation on her identity this was causing, only replying with short nods and lips pursed in a line that almost resembled a smile. 

“Leliana, Cullen and I will be accompanying you as the advisors to the Inquisition. Madame Vivienne will be there on a separate invitation, as Enchanter of the Imperial Court,” Josephine’s words trailed, confidence giving way to confusion as the second group entered the room. She fugitively threw a glance towards Solas, finally understanding his presence. 

“Very well, then Varric, Dorian and Solas will be taking the rest of the invitations.”

“Is that wise?” Cullen chimed in, warily. “…To take two other mages with you so soon after the Mage Rebellion?”

_To take another elf apostate and a Tevinter mage?_ Solas unravelled the Commander’s question.

“The Inquisition has been invited to the ball, is that correct?” Mirwen retorted, moving towards a chair, inadvertently signalling that the meeting could be seated. “This _is_ the Inquisition, whether they like it or not. I have to hide my Gods from them, but I won’t hide where we stand. They are coming with me, unless you want to go without a leader.” 

Cullen frowned in preparation for a protest. 

“Inquisitor,” Leliana cut him quickly. “You have the right to choose who you wish to take with you, but do not forget that the Game needs two players. You need finesse to keep your pieces on the board.” 

Mirwen gave her a faint smile. “Of course, Leliana. I shall remember this advice. Josephine and Vivienne have been very thorough in our lessons.” 

“So it appears…” 

Dorian shifted in his chair, the myriad of buckles that held together his – _Ridiculous_ – clothing clinking under his movement; the subtly broken silence eased Leliana’s tensed posture. 

“Now that this has been dealt with, I trust you have ordered a new design for the outfits. The sketches you have shown me before, Josephine, were ghastly.” 

“No, I have not,” Josephine said, throwing Dorian an annoyed glare. “We still have the navy tunic and the gowns-“

“I suggest a vibrant red, with a not too deep neckline,” Vivienne interrupted.

“It would be best if we all have the same uniform, tunic and trousers,” Mirwen countered firmly. “If we have to fight, I would rather be able to move than to look pretty for some debauched duke... and we need armour more than we need to keep up the appearances.”

“I admire your determination, my dear, but this is where you are positively mistaken. You ought to understand that appearances _are_ your armour when it comes to the Game.”

“But that works on the assumption that we would _all_ be skilled enough to only require the Game’s tools. There is at least one outcome that would result from us failing to protect the Empress, and that may or may not be a direct result in itself of the Inquisition’s forces getting stabbed in the back before we even have a chance to raise as barrier. Surely the Game’s… armour can be made so that we don’t have to sacrifice practicality.”

Vivienne sighed tiredly, as if this was not the first discussion they have had on this topic. 

“Agreed,” Cassandra added, stifling a smile. “It is not necessary for you to be in gowns, and this way it will be easier for a light armour to be concealed under your clothes.” 

Although proved to him time and time before, it never ceased to make him wonder at the peculiar threads that carried through the ages. He supposed that the depraved was easier to make a lasting and painfully visible mark on even the loosest tapestries, even when there was beauty and goodness twining the muddy braid. The nobles, after all, had always been the same: bored beings, warped to view the world as their playground where only them can make the rules.

Solas saw himself, standing proud and watchful, leaning over a sumptuous mosaic painstakingly chosen, the reason of which escaping his memory. His spectator-mind filled in the missing pieces of the opulent emerald cloak, translucent and ephemeral, draped over bronze cuirass and gorget that twined over the entire length of his neck and torso before disappearing under tight trousers. Surrounding, were elvhen dancing to the rhythm of their fastidious schemes. Through cascading crystals, jewelled flowers, ostentatious materials that flowed in crashing waves whenever the climbing nobles would execute their performative movements and reactions, he could see the vigilant frames of their servants.

And watched were they with great interest, Solas merely another link in an interminable chain of scrutinizing eyes.

They would wear no masks in Elvhenan, though he could not tell if it was a wise decision to do the same at the Orlesian court. The debate went back and forth, some in favour of them and some not – unsurprisingly, it was Mirwen, Cassandra, Varric and Cullen those that opposed them, however for different reasons. 

Solas almost lost his composure upon hearing Leliana’s frustrated attempts at convincing their leader to change her stance, entirely missing the point of her refusal. It seemed that the visit to the Winter Palace ignited a stubbornness in her that no one was quite prepared to deal with. 

“I will not cover my vallaslin,” he heard her say with a calm finality. “You are all free to wear whatever you want, however.”

_An interesting prospect,_ Solas straightened in his seat. He would have to see if there is anything that would aid him in his meeting with Briala.

“How will the weapons be smuggled in?” Mirwen asked. “I’m sure I can speak for every mage here when I say that we can cast a few runes, barriers and manipulate our auras, but we will need staves for the more complex spells. Bianca is not exactly easiest to conceal either.” 

“Do not concern yourself with this,” Vivienne said with a nonchalant flourish. “Leliana and I will handle it. There are few matters that cannot be solved with favours when it comes to the Winter Palace.”

It was not the first time that he felt pain marring his thoughts and clenching his jaw; Solas had seen her skills grow, and her magic was unmistakable in battle. She held an innate understanding of the Fade, weaving and wielding the energies as if her finger plucked their power unobstructed by any barriers. 

_And they could have been, if the Veil had never been created_. 

Far too many spells were now considered as complex by an elf who could have sang magic into nature. 

Their talks about conduit and customs stretched into the next hour, verging on ridiculous detailing. With a quick glance around the room, he could tell that Cassandra was relieved to not need to adhere to any of them; Cullen was wearing a stoic expression which was only betrayed by incessant, albeit almost imperceptible shifting in his chair; and Varric was listening with a resigned frown.  

Josephine announced that they each were to receive a report on various important figures, of which they should be vigilant. Dispersing the group to strategic locations, and Solas made a mental note to search for a good vantage point in Taren’s memories to claim once they had reached the Winter Palace. 

Mirwen glanced at the window; the sun signalled that they had reached well into the morning. 

“I will let you sort out anything else that remains, or else I will be late for my Rift Magic lessons.”

He watched distracted as they continued their discussions on provisions and optimal routes to be taken towards Orlais; troops would be sent ahead of time to establish camps along the road covering the Dales, as was their Inquisitor’s insistence – there was still enough time left before the Ball to allow such incursions.

“Solas… forgive me, I am required to send the titles of the Inquisitorial party to the Winter Palace. They will be recited as we will all be introduced to the Empress,” Joephine said. “I… am familiar with all the honorifics of our delegates… except yours.”

“The reason is evident, is it not? I do not have one.” 

“The Orlesians present at the Ball will be affluent people, who put great emphasis on societal stature. We need the Inquisitor to be seen as a powerful woman, surrounded by other powerful people, and to them, titles mean authority. Please, is there any you would like to have attributed to your name?” Josephine paused uncomfortably. “I could propose a few options…”

Dorian snorted. “Lying to the Southern Court before we even enter the Palace? I was unaware that this was on the table, I have a few amendments to bring to mine.”

“Nonsense, my dear, titles are hard-earned and not something that we could play pretend with.” Vivienne added, entirely dismissing Dorian. 

What did the elvhen call him? Fen’Harel, Harbinger of the Rebellion, Banisher of the Evanuris… Murderer of Mythal and He Who Will Be Prey? 

How did the Dalish invoke him? Fen’Harel, He Who Hunts Alone, Lord of Tricksters… Roamer of the Beyond and Bringer of Nightmares?

It did not roll off the tongue quite as elegantly as ‘First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, Enchanter of the Imperial Court’. 

“The First Enchanter is correct," Solas said. "They are awarded for valiant work and great accomplishments – either personal or for the well-being of their nation. They befit scholars, artists, leaders.” 

Vivienne nodded, pleased. “Precisely. For all of our differences, Apostate, you are remarkably reasonable.” 

“Then… what do you suggest?” Josephine asked. 

Time seemed to dilate around him, and he saw the attentive glances of his companions waiting for his next words – the simple hermit, far too enthusiastic about the Fade, which had been granted access to the Winter Palace seemingly as a jab towards the Empire. Around the room, each one of them held flashy titles that were sure to impress _someone_ in Halamshiral, and which were guaranteed to drag them into the Game as notable players. 

Which is exactly what he needed to avoid. 

Underestimated, unassuming, unobtrusive, undervalued.

This was an unforeseen opportunity, but one that he could not let slip away from him. A sharp contrast between himself and the leader of the Inquisition, another elf, after his introduction to Briala by his agents was sure to consolidate his potential as a valuable ally in this organisation. Not only that, but he would be able to blend in much more easily, being left alone by prying eyes.

_It will, however, be done at the expense of the Inquisitor._

His breath hitched for a fraction of a second.

“I am accompanying the Inquisitor, a Dalish elf that must fight to be seen beyond the Orlesian preconceptions,” Solas began carefully. “Albeit highly capable, she is also a mage. An apostate, trained outside of a Circle. Not only that, but she would walk through the gates of the Winter Palace together with two other mages, one Tevinter and one a hedge mage. It would be unwise to have such an open dismissal of Chantry measures against the perceived dangers of the arcane amongst the higher-ranked of the Inquisition. We may enter unarmed, but should a threat arise we would be unable to conceal our magic.”

He looked across the room, searching for any glimmer in their eyes suggesting him that he would need to change his tactic.

“A scholar’s honorifics would be equally detrimental. My studies revolve around the Fade, challenging established ideas, which may raise questions on just how much the organisation can be trusted.”

_The Inquisitor personally asked that I be there_ , he thought with a chill in his bones. _They are bound to accept_.

“No title attributed to me would benefit the Inquisitor but one,” he finished confidently, though he could not recognise his voice as his own.

“Which is…” Josephine’s confused words trailed.

With his inner eye, he saw the determined expressions of Nelya, Varylwin and Serahel, who were still scouring the land for the other foci. He saw Alassan’s brass eyes as he lost himself scrutinizing the increasingly clearer Denerim Alienage. He saw Dinlaselan’s terrified grimace as he detailed report after report after report on the red templars’ creation. He saw Sharanni and Liris’s disgusted scowls as they accounted the despicable conditions that which they had to dodge before reaching the De Chalons Estate. He saw Garion’s pained expression as he bit his tongue, stopping himself from disclosing his views sympathising with the elves he found himself amongst. He saw Taren's gaunt cheeks and glassy eyes, as he recalled another region, hard-fought to be mapped.

He saw Felassan’s violet eyes close serene, as he drew his last breath for jeopardising their mission.

_Do not let this advantage slip through your fingers._

The suggestion would be partially true, a state which he was accustomed to dwell in – and whose hazy limits were harder day by day to define.

_Forgive me, Mirwen._

“The elven serving man of the Lady Inquisitor,” Solas answered.


	25. Sober

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas starts planning his interaction with Briala, and Mirwen contemplates her role as a leader of the Inquisition.

“You can’t be serious about this, Chuckles. Think of Mirwen’s hurt if nothing else! She specifically insisted that you come with us and you want her to hear you be paraded around like that?!” Varric asked angrily, leaning forward in his chair as if to better drive his point across. “Just let me write something for you, I promise it’ll be short and sweet, and I’ll even throw in a hint to how much of a smart-ass you are.”

“The Inquisitor might not accept this solution, true, but it is not a topic for discussion,” Solas countered, his adamancy clear in his tone. “I would be of more use to the Inquisition this way, possibly even be able to blend in with the servants. Either accept this presentation or leave me behind.” 

He looked at Josephine resolute. She was visibly uncomfortable with the proposed plan, and probably even more so now that Varric had brought up a very plausible outcome of estranging their leader. Another course of action was placed onto the scales: leaving him, indeed, behind – though it posed no threat, as it would only mean facing her anger sooner and returning to yet another circular conversation around Mirwen’s unshakeable stubbornness on this matter.

_Neither of which are your problem_ , Solas reminded himself, his inner voice somehow catching the tinge of speaking through clenched teeth. 

Josephine sighed, then looked at her two fellow advisors searching for support, but they appeared just as disconcerted.

“Very well, Solas, you will be introduced as you wish,” she finally announced, quickly averting her eyes to the stack of parchments she carried and finishing her notes. 

There was truth in his words, as he believed that his presence at the Ball would only hinder Mirwen’s chances at successfully presenting herself and the Inquisition at court. Although it might prove difficult to actually pass as a servant, it would be definitely easier to communicate with them. Taren, Garion or Dithra would surely be able to convince Briala to accompany her.

The true purpose of his chosen title was no more necessary for their well-being now as the truth behind his identity, his foci and Corypheus’s powers was. It would only complicate matters. 

Solas narrowed his eyes, watching the room slowly being emptied as he approached the door.

Everything he did, had been done for Elvhenan. Why would he need to justify his greater actions within the Inquisition in rapport to its people? If anything, he should only feel remorse for deceiving Mirwen, to manipulate the situation that she had created in his favour.

_And it would be nothing compared to learning that she had gotten so close to Fen’Harel._

He winced. 

There was no time for dwelling on unnecessary feelings – and he straightened his shoulders just as he passed Josephine’s desk, behind which the Ambassador sat herself tiredly. If he wanted his meeting with Briala to succeed, he needed to show her just how valuable he would be: by demonstrating enough attention to detail and knowledge of the Game as possible, from the first moments of his introduction. 

A phrase, perhaps? To be intoned before presenting himself? Somewhere in the Orlesian history should exist an event so significant that the mere mention of it would prove a deeper understanding of her cause.    

Solas proceeded downstairs towards to the secluded library. Although the one above his space in the rotunda housed significantly more books, the reference he was after needed to be more subtle – but not so subtle that he risked falling flat. He recalled seeing mentions of different rebellions against the Orlesian empire throughout the eras, minor or significant, whose allusion could be used to his advantage. 

The dwarven statues were passed hastily, sparing them no glance of awe that he had feigned last they had been encountered with Vivienne. 

The small library was dimly lit by the veilfire they had left behind during their cataloguing session. The desk had been cleaned, and all the books had been rearranged by era, year, and finally by author – if any had been mentioned. Solas tried to recall events, names or keywords from the Orlesian history, anything that would aid him in his search. 

_The Fereldan rebellion from 8:96 to 8:99 Blessed… The 8:5 Blessed rebellion of Kirkwall against Orlais…_ he recounted, narrowing his eyes and flowing the dates with a steady finger. These newer books had been brought here by Vivienne, who believed in the decluttering of the historical tomes from the rotunda in favour of the more practical arcane ones. A very helpful arrangement. 

He flicked his left wrist and lit another veilfire, idly swirling the small flames in his palm. 

_The civil war against Xavier Drakon from the Exalted Age… what was its date_. Solas picked a tome that seemed appropriate and stacked it on top of the other two he was carrying. He looked over their covers, pondering their weight, before discarding them on the desk; although interesting opinions, the events were too recent and not nearly relevant enough. 

_There was a famous elven criminal in Halamshiral… why did they stand out_ , his brows furrowed as he continued to gloss over the dates. _Gaspard is a chevalier, the elf slayed… a dozen?_ His eyes darted to a farther shelf. _Black Age. 4:45_ – a book was picked, and a new stack began anew. _The… riot of Val Royeaux… 4:52 Black_ – his fingers halted, as he realised it probably was mentioned in the tome he had already pulled. 

Solas sat himself at the desk, crossing his hands under his chin. He tentatively placed a palm over the accounts of the Fereldan rebellion, then retreated it immediately and, instead, commenced to flip through the book from the Black Age. 

A reference to Alidda and the plight of the elves in the Halamshiral Alienage could prove useful – though… her could benefit from a visual impact even before he encountered Briala. It would be unlikely that he should find Alidda’s dagger, let alone smuggle it successfully into the Winter Palace before the rest of their equipment arrived… and it was imperative that he should meet her before Mirwen had the chance to.

Besides, he doubted that the dagger would be easily recognisable or particularly impactful. 

He leaned into the chair, glazing over the string of unexplored bookshelves.

Maybe… 

Solas approached the shelves holding the books from the Divine Age; the covers were, expectedly, more worn than those of the ones he had already lined on the desk, but the texts’ indents were still visible on their spine. 

He closed his eyes; the event in question was murky in his mind, the details barely catching form. Vivienne had interrupted his perusing, chastising his refusal to drop the book after they had identified the era and years accounted within; _I applaud your self-restraint, Enchanter_ , his recollection halted by his griping towards the memory. 

_Anders rebels against Kordillus Drakon II, the emperor who aided the Divine… in the destruction of the Dales._

_The Order of the Drasca._

A few tomes containing events after the Second Blight were chosen and quickly brought to the desk. 

If he could find a sketch of any of their armour, he could have it commissioned at the blacksmith – they were bound to be unique and easily recognisable by at least someone in her entourage and, if not, he could explain its meaning himself as a last resort.

It would stand as a symbol that, although having lived outside of Orlais, he would oppose and fight against their common enemy.

 

***

 

“Again, lethallan!”

They really should have moved in tandem; Krem gathered a bunch of scraps they had taken from the blacksmith, and Mirwen only took a deep breath. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, rolling her shoulders, her plain fire-cored staff’s blade dangling loosely just above the ground. 

Krem huffed once and flashed his eyes towards Merrill. It was the… twentieth? twenty-fifth? …something-eth time they were repeating the same exercise. Krem would throw the bundle into the air trying to scatter it as much as possible, then he would run in the opposite direction as fast as he could. The whole area had been announced as off-limits for the rest of the Inquisition, a briefing which had not been hard to comply with since not many had any work to do near the stables.

Apart from Dennet and Blackwall, who were working by playing Diamondback. 

The scraps had been scattered into the air and Mirwen gave Krem a few seconds to run away. Quickly – much quicker this time – she opened a small Rift right above the dispersed bundle and sprung them into place. The metal was glimmering in the green light of the Fade, ribbons stringing them like jagged beads in a tight loop around the tear between worlds.

“Steady…” Merrill said, approaching her left side.

Keep it active for ten heartbeats, shift the energies so that the rift remains open by gathering the residual magic in the air, not having to use most of her concentration… those were the waypoints she had to reach in her practice. The Trainer hadn’t been very helpful in this regard but putting her head together with Merrill had eventually led to a logical plan for exercise. She had managed to get the first one down, though the second was easier said than done. Of course, she could have asked the only other Rift mage she knew… but Solas seemed to gather increasingly more tasks every time they returned to Skyhold. As much as she wanted to peel him away from those reports, experiments or moments of painting, work appeared to put him at ease – and _Gods!_ , how she missed seeing those brows unfurrowed. 

It was hard to fault him. Everyone had been keeping themselves busy with demanding tasks, in one way or another. Much easier to divert their attention from the imminent disaster that threatened to crash over them every step they took.

Mirwen huffed. 

In rapid succession, she cast a barrier over the land shadowed by the scraps, followed by braiding an immolating circle into the glistening spirit net; she angled her staff again and, with her marked hand’s nails, slashed the air into a veilstrike onto the bundle. The rift closed above the slowly melting the metal. 

“You didn’t even wait for my signal…”

“I tried something different this time,” Mirwen grinned. 

“Are you sure you want to continue this?” Krem asked, approaching them. “It doesn’t look to me that you need much more practice for that… Rift spell.” 

Mirwen sighed. “Ideally yes, I am still using too much energy for it… but maybe you’re right. I should call it a day, I’m not making any progress now. “ 

She examined the pile of discarded greaves, pauldrons and visors, all bent out of shape and craggy sitting tauntingly a few paces away from them. For a moment, she considered an inverted veilstrike, send them into the air by herself and continue the practice alone – it was unfair of her to ask Merrill and Krem to give her this much of their time. 

Her eyes trailed upwards, towards the small table on which Blackwall and Dennet had been placing their bets. The Warden was watching them intently from over his cards, his posture unreadable as was the custom of the game. Mirwen waved at him and she saw his hidden smile curl up the ends of his moustache, eyes crinkling faintly before he returned them onto his opponent. 

It was unfair for everyone else to need to hide away because of her magical experiments. Skyhold was their home as much as it had become hers. 

“Thank you both for your help, it is much appreciated,” Mirwen said warmly, returning her attention to the rest of her small group. “Close combat training for tomorrow, Krem? I could use some pointers.”

Krem whistled jokingly. “Get me a pint at the Herald’s Rest and you have a deal.” 

“Ah, so the usual! Would you like to join us again, Merrill?” 

“Yes, though I would like you to help me too. I need to find out who keeps putting plums on the windowsills in the tavern.” 

They gathered the scraps quickly and proceeded through the courtyard towards the blacksmith. Busy soldiers and workers dodged them skilfully, only stopping for the occasional salute in the form of ‘lethallan’ or ‘Herald’. The general morale had improved over the course of the past weeks, and Josephine was the one to praise for that. She had completely transformed the stronghold through all the mercantile connections she had formed. _If only I could do more_ , Mirwen thought; it had been wistful thinking that crossing the bridge to Skyhold would have closed the one between the shem symbol she represented and the person she truly was. 

_“Then you shall go to Sacred Ashes, Ardu’un. This is all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it?”_ Deshanna’s voice rang in her ears. 

She closed her eyes and forced the sharp pain to wash away from her features, and only remain rooted deep within her chest. 

_Mother Mythal, give me strength to keep them safe however they might view me._  

Krem took it upon himself to grab the bundle from her arms, to let her return quicker to her responsibilities; she watched her two companions distracted, the world a hazy backdrop to her thoughts. Mirwen barely managed to register the silhouette of the only person in this entire stronghold that had made her feel at ease since joining the Inquisition. 

Expectedly, Solas had that pained look on his face that he’s always had when he was subjected to Mirwen’s prayers before a particularly long journey or a potentially difficult battle – it seemed like he never really got used to the fact that she was indeed Dalish. Of course, it could be that or he could be bored out of his mind, with a dash of anger for being saddled with said boredom. It was hard to tell sometimes. She hadn’t seen him happy once after leaving the tailor’s or the blacksmith’s. Something about stitching his own clothes, probably. 

Even more expectedly, though, he looked like a tall drink of water, swaying and throwing his legs forward with such nonchalant confidence as if he owned the whole damn stronghold, even through all that discontent narrowing those steely eyes.

“Inquisitor,” Mirwen had heard him say, with that slight nod and stern formality that he seemed to have picked up some time along the road. 

“Solas,” she returned with a quirk of her shoulder and head, mocking the ridiculously flourished salutes of the few Orlesian nobles around Skyhold. “Varric.”

_Huh_. Had Varric always been there?

Mirwen had asked Solas once to call her by her name. It certainly didn’t stick, and she now had just as much hope for him to change his ways as she could expect him to respect Dalish traditions… or for him to actually give her an answer as to how that kiss in the Fade would change their relationship.

_Creators!_ She was foolish, wasn’t she? The man who could not stop himself from sharing his views on any topic he was asked needed weeks to come up with an answer for one question. It did not feel right to pry nor push, and her… subtle actions barely got a reaction out of him.

Though, really… it was ridiculous to think that stretching over the War Table would have had _any_ effect beyond a subtle twitch, especially when they were having a meeting for a crucial mission.

_There are more important matters than a fretting man_ , she told herself, pushing the handle of the door towards her apartments. _…a ridiculously intelligent and handsome, but ultimately impossible fretting man_ , she settled with pursed lips, the creaking wooden thud punctuating her resolution. 

Mirwen climbed the stairs to her room with hurried steps, involuntarily scrunching her nose at the freshly-painted Andrastian mural above her bed. The symbol of the Inquisition pointed its sharp blade towards the pillow that had cushioned far more nightmares than peaceful dreams.

_At least they painted the frame and trees in red,_ she thought, recollecting the scarlet silk hoods of aravels and the serenity their sight would bring her.

_Sylaise, protect this immovable aravel._ A mental note was made to gather tree-moss, to hang it from the handrails. 

Josephine had brought three dossiers last time they have had their lessons on the Orlesian Game. Although she and Vivienne had incredibly insightful stories to give as examples, Mirwen couldn’t say that she cared much for the figurative masks she was supposed to change throughout the night. There was a looming danger, risking swallowing Thedas whole, and the Empress and her nobles would place more value on twisting words and inflexions of one’s voice?! It did not sit well with her. 

_If they want a dance, then so be it_ , she thought, words lingering on a heavy sigh.

It was no secret that she would be faced with having to support one of the three claimants to the throne – her advisors had made that painfully clear. Quick as they were to give her their opinions, the troubling decision still remained her burden.

Another damned burden. Add it to the pile. 

Mirwen ran her fingers through her hair, the other hand gently separating the parchments on the desk. 

The future revealed at Redcliffe’s time paradox had the murder of Empress Celene as a second grand step after Corypheus’ acquisition of the rebel mages. Leliana was convinced that the assassin would have infiltrated the parties of either Gaspard de Chalons or Briala. 

But whose would be so inattentive as to welcome a corrupted member within their ranks?

She narrowed her eyes.

Both would be tense and have a razor-sharp focus on the Empire’s throne. She supposed it would be easy to overlook every small change in someone’s behaviour, or to inspect every new recruit personally and wait for the moment they would slip.

_How long until this would be the fate of the Inquisition?_ she asked herself, swallowing the forming knot in her throat; she made yet another note to pay more attention to the people peppering Skyhold and their camps.

The choice for her support heavied her shoulders. 

Leliana maintained that a stable Orlais was most needed, which would be brought by the rule of either Celene or her cousin Gaspard. Cullen believed that a military mind would be the best out of the two, Gaspard’s claim being fair as the eldest grandchild of Emperor Judicael I. Josephine sustained that Celene has held her throne successfully so far, and a change of rulership in favour of her chevalier cousin would bring more unnecessary chaos. None suggested supporting Briala alongside one of the members of the royal family… unsurprisingly – it was as clear as day that no shem nation would take well to having an elf at the side of their ruler.

“Oh, Dirthamen, shine your light on these secrets…” she whispered, furrowing her brows as she sat herself on the chair.

First and foremost she held the duty of protecting the Dalish clans. Although a former Keeper in training for clan Lavellan, the well-being of the elves in the city Alienages had become a growing mission in her heart ever since Feynriel had shared his stories of the hardships he’d faced with his mother in Kirkwall. Choosing Briala, before settling on one of the cousins, was the simply evident option to achieve the goal of ensuring that their lives would finally improve. 

But would choosing Briala serve the larger goal of bringing stability in Thedas?

The conflicting knot twisted hard in Mirwen’s stomach like a hunter’s freshly laid trap.

She had been chosen as the Inquisitor – maybe only as a symbol attributed to their shem prophet, maybe only for her actual ability of closing the tears in the Fade, but what was certain now was that she was given power… Actual power: of saving a warring faction, of judging prisoners, of interfering in a nation’s politics. What was she if not a Keeper to the whole clan of Thedas, united in fear and broken homes under the threat of Corypheus?

_"You have much to learn, da'len. Do not attempt to school us on what is and what isn't a good course of action."_ Hahren Ithelan’s sharp words stung like a thousand Felandaris thorns’ cuts on young cheeks, and Keeper Deshanna’s disappointed eyes set them aflame through flaring shame and anger.

_"Then help me understand!"_ Mirwen’s own desperate voice echoed in his mind, a plea to the elders, the Creators, the world.

Damn their shem title!

_If this is another one of your trials, He Who Hunts Alone, I will not fall for your snare and betray my people._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand there is a POV change! There won't be too many throughout the fic, but I felt like a change of pace was necessary at this point... so here it is xD


	26. Right in Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Solas and the rest of the Halamshiral delegation begin their diversion through the Dales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely Hezjena2023 has written an incredible one-shot for Mirwen and Solas, Bloomin' Heck! ❤️ ❤️ Do check it out if you want to read a rated E, later stage of their relationship!

“Mirwen, if you do not mind me asking, why have you insisted we diverge the path to Halamshiral by so much? I know we have said that we have enough time to do so, but it will still be a tight chase.”

Cassandra and Dorian were flanking her on their sorrel-coloured horses, walking steadily a few paces away from his and Varric’s own Fereldan Forders. Solas had overheard two of the blacksmith’s apprentices that Josephine had commissioned a series of armour schematics for Mirwen’s steed but, as of now, the only adornments shadowing its bay coat were a simple saddle heavied by one bundle of supplies.

Nevermind that their Inquisitor would have never agreed to wasting materials only for posturing when there were soldiers in need for new pieces – and this was not a testament for how well he knew her. _No,_ he punctuated quickly. It would have been very apparent had they only listened to her wishes regarding her presence at the Winter Palace.

Though… he could not blame her advisors. She may not like it, but posturing was necessary.

He knew very well the importance of appearances in diplomatic affairs. Both sides held valid arguments, and both sides wished for the well-being of the Inquisition. Solas idly ran his fingers through the dark mane of his mount expecting to be met by the familiar texture of Tarasyl'nin, Evune or Shiathe’s fur – he was only met by that of his issued horse’s.

He did not miss the fine thread by which his army hung from unsparing choices – but _By the Void!_ , did he miss each and every one of his trusted harts.

“One of Leliana’s scouts has spotted a Dalish clan in the Exalted Plains,” Mirwen replied without sparing Cassandra any look. “With any luck, some of them might even want to join us.”

“Tell me the truth,” Dorian chimed in. “We had enough time for you to finish our last experiments before leaving for the Winter Palace, and you expect me to believe that you would leave them behind on the off-chance that someone from this clan would want to join us?”

Mirwen finally turned to the mage, her expression impassable – the clenched jaw was the only detail that betrayed her thoughts. She maintained their contact for a few heartbeats as if pondering her response. Varric didn’t seem to pay their interaction much attention, instead admiring the mountainous region, possibly pleased that they finally did not need to trudge through the snowed path by foot.

“Would you not have left your research behind if a group of Tevinter mages, maybe acquaintances of yours, would have been spotted within reach?” Mirwen answered, returning her gaze towards the road ahead. “Would you not run hopeful that they would join your cause? We have already set camps there, I would like them to know of us as allies and at the very least be unafraid to interact with our agents…” She paused, the crackling snow under their horses’ hooves and the wind’s hiss filling the silence. “And I am not chasing an off-chance. I am looking for someone.”

Her tone was resolute and final, a characteristic that had become much more of a regularity than her previous openness. Perhaps as a result of preparations for Halamshiral, or simply the natural course of assuming the seat of a leader – he could not tell.

“Ah,” Solas whispered, mist dissipating from his suppositions, pieces falling into place.

_She is looking for her brother, the mage sent to a different clan._

His steed slowed its gait, allowing for the slow change of pace dictated by the horses leading their group: Cassandra and Dorian’s remained on their position, while Mirwen’s moved closer to the rear line. Varric gave Solas an encouraging look and, before he could protest, the chestnut Forder that carried the Dwarf quickly replaced their leader’s in the front line.  

“Do you truly believe you will find your brother amongst this Dalish clan?” Solas inquired in soft voice, once some distance had been placed between the riders.

The sound of the wind was his only answer, clear and sibilant on his uncovered ears.

“No.”

And there it was again, this bizarre finality that clung to her words like thick fog clings to frozen bark and shivering leaves. A silence that sang empty notes of aplomb and dissonances of numbness.

She wrapped it in a faint sigh.

“Every day I am met with the blind hope of the people of the Inquisition,” Mirwen added, as if she unravelled his thoughts. “Let me be the one to hold it just once.”

“Would you not rather have certainty? You could have given the scouts his particularities to look for.”

“The only certainty that I can trust is given by my own eyes… I haven’t seen him since he was a boy.”

“The Dalish clans meet every ten years, do they not? Surely they would…” Solas pressed, turning to face her.

The words withered in his throat upon noticing her tense expression, his gaze quickly trickling down to her white-knuckled hands gripping the leather reins.

“Ah… I apologise.”

Mirwen didn’t spare him any acknowledging glance yet retained her calm aura.

“I haven’t been told any news regarding him, which would lead to two possible reasons: he has specifically asked to not inform my clan of his well-being or he is no longer alive. My entire knowledge of him now is uncertain, I can only hold onto hope.”

Awkward silence settled upon them once again, save for the murmur carried from the group ahead.

“Forgive me,” Solas finally said in low voice.  “I should not have pried.”

“It is done.” He could see her eyes soften, but her grip on the reins didn’t follow suit. “You couldn’t have known.”

He pinpointed the hazy line of the horizon, peeking timidly in-between the riders along the road, as realisation overtook galloping all the hazy resolves that jousted for attention. He had once been firm in his belief that there was no need to know more about the Inquisition than it was necessary for the task at hand – they were all fleeting apparitions, which would leave their mark on the unfurled canvas of the Fade should they be deemed meaningful.

And he learnt – to learn, to listen, to gather all the bright beads of fervour and despair, of hope and numbness that the people offered him with trustful palms, to be strung on gleaming strings that unravelled all the barriers that shielded him from this new and strange world. Barriers raised to cover old wounds.

Traversing the gardens, Solas had encountered two mages that had seemingly been inseparable since their arrival to Skyhold. Promises dripped from each and every one of their embraces, and words swirled around them like a breeze of spring: “ _I will find you again, no matter what._ ” Alanna would return to the library above the rotunda with him, exchanging few pleasantries amongst which she would hide a shakily-spoken “ _Maker watch over Rosalie._ ”

In lending his healing expertise, he had heard about Moira, a scout who always seemed sunny even on stormy days. She would use most of her spare time helping the makeshift clinic and returning from missions with baskets full of Feladara. She would happily announce “ _I brought more Elfroot!_ ” before kneeling next to her brother – who would put on a show of having gotten better since the attack on Haven that crushed his legs.  

Walking to the barracks to replace his armour pieces, he would know about Declan. The young soldier orphaned during the Fifth Blight, whose mind would replay the images of a hurlock’s armoured feet dragged in cadence with the terrified wails of his mother, before the crack in the wooden floorboard was flooded in her blood, life faded in bleak silence. Every recollection of her warm embrace was now pale and cold, every encouraging word muffled in his dying memory.

 _Spectres. Shadows. Echoes of our own gluttony_ – Cole would interject in his familiarly soft tone, before beginning his even more habitual questioning… but how could he ever hope to convince Compassion that the comfort given was misplaced, absorbed and never assimilated by these visions?

Cole would counter in favour of this immaterial reality exhaled by the Veil, and each time his argument would shorten, cut by eyes and voice dropping in sadness: “ _The path can’t change”_.

“ _Let me help you_ ”, he would say, pained, and Solas knew who Compassion would guide him towards.

She had put her hood up, huddled in the thick wool cloak that matched those that were covering each of their armours. Mirwen’s Forder was now walking in its own line, distanced from all the other riders.

_“You couldn’t have known.”_

He had listened but never asked for more. Events had been painted in broad strokes, and he had found them sufficient to understand her stance within the Inquisition – _Her role within the fall of the Veil_ , he added grimly.

It was not enough.

For understanding how the plan would change now that she was a vital component or… simply for knowing her?

A gust of brisk wind stirred the bare branches that framed the Eastern side of the path ahead. Solas idly motioned his fingers into a crescent, gliding his wrist into a lazy swirl to extend half barriers to all the riders and their horses. The whispery hum of spirits in his own barrier was quickly silenced by his rustling of a wool hood over his ears.

_Would the two purposes overlap?_

Greed was shrouding his wishes, for how could he desire to know more about this world when it had wanted nothing to do with him… or Mirwen’s life that he took away from her when the Anchor settled amongst her bones. Hypocrisy was swimming in his veins, for how could he want to learn more about her life before her forcefully entrusted burdens when he had barely given any of his in return… or be able to disclose until the nefarious time would come.

_This is not real, this is not your time, these are not your people._

What is real when it blends into the irreal with beautiful phantasmagorical creations, aberrations born without one branch of nature, superficially connecting with it only through dreams and rejecting those who have an inherent link to it in waking.  

Rejecting, damning, decrying, maligning.  

They name the others Tranquils, yet Tranquility would be the prevalent intrinsic quality of those who had no hope to reach the withered petal of this world’s essence – those who now walked the overgrown and derelict paths of an imploded primeval empire. A world which began anew with the creation of the Veil, placed atop ruins which did not know they would soon become lifeless.

So why would he feel the need to learn more?

Pain, despair, hope, love… and his anguished gaze trailed the frozen trees towards his companions ahead of the road, forlorn dissolving his features in turning to the auburn locks gently floating off the edges of a grey hood.

This world should have never come to pass, and its walking shades should have never caught shapes of sense. Tearing down the Veil should never had been a question of selflessness…

...but what is the logical answer in the face of this selfishness found in the happiness for his plans’ suspension?

***

Spirit fragments gathered around his fingertips, dancing about their spectral cage – pushed forward, they ran in layered waves, enveloping those that stood against the pouring demons. The barriers pulsated, and Solas saw the now non-existent twitch that their shoulders used to give: they had all grown accustomed to his magic. _Too accustomed._

Mirwen splayed her marked hand over the tear in the Veil, seemingly disrupting the connection between the Fade and the physical world. In reality, the rupture began to slowly sew itself shut, as it was merely a glowing wound in the thin membrane that kept the realms separate.

And demons had yet to cease in their disharmonious stream.

A wisp, a wraith, a spirit – all nudged back gently by familiar forces, giving them the needed fraction of a moment to retreat through the portal.

A wisp, a shade, a demon – all encased in glacial statues of their own, to find their chosen end far from planes immortal.

Cassandra’s sword slashed shatteringly. She lunged forward, chaining her strike towards brittle claws that threatened to dig into her armour. From the blade’s iron trail, Varric’s arrow emerged valiant. One. Two. Three flames of Rage snuffed above the cold ground.

Solas swirled his hand through the air, guiding the uncaring snowflakes into the forming ripple of energy around his staff. Arched arm. Broader coils. Snow rushing compliantly, gathering and forming.

One powerful carve of the air, and blizzard descended upon the fight with a deafening whistle.

A fire mine erupted through the fog, behind the green aura of his quick siphoning of stray magic. Mirwen’s clunky inquisitorial armour glistened in scintillating embers, before emerald mist melted the colours in an aura of her own. Weaver fingers set alight a faint net, and an immolating explosion began anew.

“To your left!” Dorian’s voice, assured and distant, warned her of the lanky limbs of Terror, and she bestowed a sundering strike onto the attacker.

How unsure and stilted Mirwen’s spells used to be. How long it had taken him to master the abilities they now grouped under a Rift Mage school, and she naturally drew and unleashed forces that were unnatural for this world. _Can she see the subtle fragments of the Fade dance about her fingers? Can she see the tessellation in the Veil glimmer as she pulls from the Fade?_

Voices entwined into the air along with the auras of the three mages, fire and lightning braiding underneath Despair. Dorian’s features were bathed in violet light, as he quickly faced a wraith. Solas extended them a barrier, casting a shattering stone onto the Rage that fought Varric.

 _How much more could she do with unrestricted access to the Fade,_ he thought, catching a glimpse of her siphoning of floating magic, in an unintentional mirror of his own movements.

The Anchor flashed as Mirwen raised her hand to mend the tear in the Veil. Cassandra sliced her way through a small cluster of Wraiths, striking down just as he last fragments were sewn shut.

“Judrua, Fen’Harel,” the wind hissed with the crackling of snow under Cassandra’s stride.

Solas swallowed hard the knot forming in his throat. Numb, he turned his gaze, lifeless akin to the rags poking through the ichor, emerald mist dissipating with the Wraith formless body. No other vibrant colour took its place, even with the muddied trim bitterly uncovering its dull swirls to the sun.

Once, the trim would have been golden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Judrua, Fen’Harel. - [You] will atone, Fen’Harel.


End file.
